


habitual

by quassia



Category: Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Alternate Universe, Developing Relationship, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-08-09 12:03:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7801180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quassia/pseuds/quassia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A modern AU. No SHSL talents, no Hope's Peak Academy, no Despair. No hope? No, the hope here comes in a different form. They came in small, incidental and ordinary hopes. But, one way or another, they would all meet each other again, as they clawed their way through their ordinary lives, met each other, formed relationships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. vogue: the case of hinata and komaeda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a world without Hope’s Peak Academy, in a world without anything like ‘Super High School Level’ talents, without scouts that would seek out those of exceptional skill… they met in a very simple, ordinary way.

In a world without Hope’s Peak Academy, in a world without anything like ‘Super High School Level’ talents, without scouts that would seek out those of exceptional skill… they met in a very simple, ordinary way.

With a half-smile and an expression that belied a dissatisfaction for the situation or for this whole routine (to Hinata’s eyes), Komaeda Nagito introduced himself to the class as a new transfer student, bowing with a brief dip of his head. It was about as ordinary a meeting as you might expect—down to the way their gazes only briefly met, two acquaintances, and then came apart, expecting little of one another, not expecting that either of them could fill what the other might crave from this simple, uneventful life.

Eventually, Hinata noticed.

Before this moment, he thought he had been the only one who would spend time staring out of the window, wondering if _this is really it_. For a boy of his age to be thinking that in high school was a little depressing, he realised, but somehow he felt as though the world was lackluster. That _he_ was lackluster. Something was missing. But he wasn’t certain what, or how he could obtain it.

Mirroring him on the other side of the class was Komaeda Nagito.

With hair too wispy and pale, he gazed with the same empty eyes Hinata often had out of the window. Searching for something that wasn’t there.

Naturally… he didn’t know how to approach him. He didn’t even have a reason to.

Eventually, though, their paths would cross. It was simple. It was normal, ordinary. So painfully ordinary that it might’ve surprised Hinata.

 

* * *

 

 _Someone_ had to clean the classrooms after school and, walking in one day to do just that, he saw Komaeda standing with his back toward the classroom door. He was gazing at the names written on one corner of the blackboard, the slender, pale tip of his finger tracing out the kanji in the air before it, as though he needed to do so to commit it to memory. He stopped himself at the rattling of the door opening, though, glancing back over his shoulder.

And smiled, a similar smile to when he introduced himself that first day. Hinata wasn’t certain if he saw himself mirrored in that smile, or if it were just his imagination. “Hinata-kun… wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. Komaeda.” He switched his attention to the board, frowned at the names besides his and Komaeda’s. “None of the others showed up?”

“It doesn’t seem like it,” Komaeda replied cheerfully, moving toward the closet with the brooms. Hinata hesitated a moment, throwing a dirty glance at the door behind him as though it might reach those who were slacking off, and followed Komaeda. He accepted one of the brooms handed to him and, just like that, they split up to sweep their respective sides of the classroom.

Hinata’s attention kept wandering, however, darting again and again to Komaeda.

Eventually, their gazes clashed. Komaeda smiled curiously. “Hinata-kun?”

Embarrassed at himself, Hinata shook his head. “Nothing,” he replied shortly.

However, even as they went back to sweeping… there was something there. Either of them would say something. It was a matter of _who will it be_?

“You have similar eyes to mine, don’t you, Hinata-kun?”

It was Komaeda.

Hinata froze, his hands flinching around the broom handle. Guarded, he looked to Komaeda, uncertain what to make of the statement, made in his soft, almost breathy voice. “What’re you talking about?” He fought not to reveal that he thought the same thing, except it wasn’t their eyes but the smiles that they both wore sometimes.

Half-hearted. Unsatisfied.

Komaeda folded his hands on the top of the broom, lightly leaning his chin on them as he watched Hinata. “I’ve noticed, here and there,” he continued without answering the question directly, “that you do the same thing as me. You look like you’re looking for something, Hinata-kun.”

Hinata didn’t answer, unwilling to confess that Komaeda was unnervingly on point.

“I think you’re probably looking for the same thing I am.” He shrugged a shoulder. “But… you can’t find it either. Even though I’m not sure what it is myself, I haven’t been able to find it at all.” His pale eyelashes briefly shrouded his eyes, but soon he was matching Hinata’s gaze again, smiling. “You’re bored, aren’t you?”

Hinata swallowed. “I mean… its school, it’s gonna be boring…”

“You don’t need to play dumb,” Komaeda chuckled. “It’s just you and me here. It’s okay to admit it. You think this world is just as boring as I do. I can tell. Otherwise why would you not bother with anyone or anything and spend so much time looking?”

Looking down at the floor, Hinata didn’t realise his hands were white-knuckled on the broom. He hadn’t said any of this. He didn’t _want_ to say any of it, because it was unnatural. It was as unnatural hearing it explained by someone else as it was thinking it for himself. It was something that shouldn’t be said out loud, Hinata thought, because what did they have to be dissatisfied about, really?

“Don’t you agree with me, Hinata-kun?” that soft voice continued.

Hinata opened his mouth to bite out a retort but, looking up; he saw a strange expression he couldn’t name in the way Komaeda looked at him.

_I want someone to understand._

Hinata had thought such a thing many times before.

_I don’t want to be the only one to think this way._

He was only human.

_I don’t want to be alone._

He wet his lips with his tongue and defiantly swept his broom across the floor. He tried to make it seem non-committal when he said: “I understand what you’re saying, at least. It’s not like I haven’t thought it sometimes.”

Komaeda just smiled.

 

* * *

 

 “It’s boring, isn’t it? This routine?”

Komaeda would often ask him things like that. When they were doing mundane things—when they were studying for exams, when they were in the classroom _again_ with just the two of them cleaning, even such simple things as going out to eat, grabbing a bite at the convenience store after school. Each time, Hinata would shoot him a dry look and a disapproving frown, but Komaeda would merely smile.

Acknowledgement.

_I want you to feel what I feel._

Hinata understood, really.

More than he had anyone else, up until now.

 

* * *

 

“Why did I always picture you working in a library?”

Komaeda didn’t jump, just turned his head slightly to peer through wisps of pale hair. At once he smiled at the face that greeted him, no matter that face looked in return—today, Hinata’s eyebrows were raised skeptically. He was bundled up with a scarf around his neck and Komaeda thought he saw traces of snow on the shoulders of his jacket.

“Because I’m quiet?”

Hinata snorted loudly.

“Haha. You’re so mean, Hinata-kun.”

Shaking his head, Hinata moved to one of the nearby tables, collapsing there with a weary sigh, rubbing his fingers against his temple. Komaeda, after a glance at the books, joined him slowly, well aware he was shirking work as he did so.

However, Hinata was more-or-less a priority. After three years and graduating together, the only friends each other had (could you call them friends? it was a rather strange friendship, Komaeda thought, and he wouldn’t dare to presume), they had somehow stuck together. Even until now, with Hinata going into his second year of university and Komaeda working in the library until he’d more experience or decided what he was going to do next. Komaeda had mentioned the job, but he hadn’t mentioned the library.

He had thought (hoped) Hinata would find him here eventually. It was the closest library to his university, after all.

“You look tired.” Pillowing his cheek in his palm, Komaeda watched him.

Hinata looked over at him, his lips twisting into a wry smile. “I’m not doing as well as I want, I guess,” he replied, setting his bag on the table and digging through it to pull out books, notebooks, and a small laptop. “What about you? Do you like what you’re doing here?”

Komaeda nodded at once, smiling. “It’s simple and it’s boring, but it’s not so bad.”

“There you go again. You don’t have to add how boring or simple or normal something is after everything you say, you know?”

“Hinata-kun thinks a lot is boring as well,” Komaeda countered easily. “Did you want to debate about it again? I think that last time I won, ahah.”

Hinata scrunched up his nose and grumbled something under his breath before flicking open his books. Komaeda, tilting his head, wondered if Hinata was going to ignore him from here on or if he was going to strike up a conversation or ask a question—out of most things, Hinata was often the one he couldn’t figure out. If there was anything that kept things from getting too boring on a day-to-day basis, it was the fact that Hinata existed as his friend (?).

“…You’re staring at me again.”

“Really? I’m sorry,” Komaeda replied, not looking at all contrite. “Want me to help you, Hinata-kun? You’re smart, but you do better when you have someone to argue with.”

Hinata grimaced. “Aren’t you working?”

“Oh—I suppose that’s right. Then, I better get back to it.” He pushed himself out of his chair, paused with a glance that passed, lingered on Hinata as per usual. “But if Hinata-kun wants help, anything at all, you can just call me. I’m sure we can figure out whatever you don’t know together.”

Hinata shooed him off, but he still waited outside with his breath fogging in front of him until Komaeda’s shift was over.

That way, they could walk together back toward the apartment building they had both coincidentally ended up in.

Coincidentally.

 

* * *

 

Komaeda didn’t look particularly happy. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed and his chin was cocked in such a way that said _I think I’m too good to be here_. He was probably thinking something like that, too—or at least thinking about how boring it was, how rote, by the books, so on and so forth. When had Komaeda become more predictable? Hinata couldn’t tell you.

Hinata, cheered by more than a few glasses of punch from the food table, slid onto the couch next to him, to Komaeda’s displeased look.

“You’re not having a lot of fun,” Hinata commented, leaning sideways into Komaeda, a little tipsy and warm. How much alcohol was in that punch? Oh well. It was Christmas, it was fine to indulge! He didn’t have to worry about going to classes or otherwise tomorrow morning, and Komaeda didn’t have to worry about working.

“Hinata-kun is having enough fun for the both of us,” he puffed out. Not to mention that Komaeda didn’t know any of these people—they were fellow students of Hinata’s that he apparently went to classes with. _Komaeda_ hadn’t heard about any of them being particularly close friends, so he still didn’t understand why they were here apart from that it was Christmas and the alternative was spending time alone together in Hinata’s apartment, eating fried chicken and watching television.

(Komaeda would have preferred that, thank you.)

“Are you drunk?”

“No.” Hinata scrunched up his nose.

Komaeda gave him a push and he teetered too much for a sober person and ended up pursing his lips together, squinting at Komaeda. Despite Komaeda’s continued attempts to look put-out, his face softened and his lips turned up tellingly, amused.

“You’re drunk,” he said, _told_ Hinata this time around. “Should I bring you outside and push you in a snowbank?”

“If you could manage to do it, with those skinny arms,” Hinata fired back, challenging.

“I don’t think I need too much strength to manage you right now, Hinata-kun,” Komaeda laughed.

“Oh yeah? Try it, then.”

Komaeda just pushed him again, lightly and playfully, and Hinata pushed back, until they were shoulder-to-shoulder competing on the couch. But, as expected, Hinata gave, his body going lax until Komaeda pushed him sideways into the couch arm. Not too rough, because Komaeda was a slight person himself, but enough to pin him there—and Komaeda stayed, soaking in Hinata warm against his side. This wasn’t boring, he thought. Being with Hinata wasn’t the same as going through the day-to-day.

“I’ll call a taxi,” Komaeda murmured, feeling more charitable now that he’d had a small victory.

Hinata grunted, grumbled… but he _did_ go along like a good boy when Komaeda dragged him to his feet, supported his staggering body and headed back to the apartment.

Almost a full pitcher of water later and he was even able to soberly enjoy the food Komaeda ordered (better not to let him cook) and the cake he’d had waiting secretly in the fridge this entire time.

 

* * *

 

“Hinata-kun, don’t you think it’s—”

“Cut it out, already!” Hinata burst out, his hands slamming down on the table. Komaeda started, staring across at him with surprise. The library was hardly the place for shouting but Hinata didn’t lower his voice, even as he carried on in a violent torrent: “I’m sick of hearing about how boring or normal or regular or _whatever_ it is all the time! Aren’t I the same?! I’m just normal, I’m as normal as it gets, so aren’t you sick of me too?!”

Komaeda, struck dumb, blinked very slowly. “No, Hinata-kun…”

But Hinata had stopped listening, carrying on with his face gradually flushing. Whether it was anger or hurt was difficult to say. It was probably both. “I’m _tired_ of it, already, Komaeda! I’m tired of hearing about it, I’m tired of arguing about it all, so just…”

He stood, beginning to shove his things in his bag. His hands were trembling and Komaeda, feeling boneless and weak, helplessly watched him.

For once, he didn’t know what he should say. No, he knew what he _wanted_ to say.

“It’s not like that, Hinata-kun,” he started, his voice quivering, uncertain. There was something important he should say to Hinata, Hinata of all people who made his life feel not as bad as he always thought it would be.

Hinata stopped, fixing his gaze on him. He waited.

Komaeda quailed.

Brusque, Hinata shoved the rest of his things in his bag and whipped away, storming out of the library and leaving a chill feeling that crept over Komaeda’s heart. He didn’t lie. He’d never lied.

But.

He hadn’t been able to say something that he needed to. Something important. He had been trying to cheer Hinata up after his day, maybe soften the impact some of the things had had on him, but instead he’d made it worse. He realised that much. But he hadn’t wanted to. What he wanted to do…

What he wanted…

 

* * *

 

Cradling his head in his hands, Hinata wanted to dig a hole in the ground and bury himself in it. He wanted to go further than that and just fall to the center of the earth.

What was he doing?

He knew—he _knew_ what Komaeda had been trying to do. Really he did. Komaeda wasn’t precisely good at soothing or comforting, he had never had been, so he always fell back to the old things. Reminding Hinata how silly and boring everything is, how those things don’t _matter_ , how they shouldn’t matter. In a roundabout way, it was Komaeda’s best attempt to try and help him.

But today he hadn’t… he hadn’t let it soothe him. He didn’t want Komaeda to comfort him. At least, he didn’t want it like that.

And he’d just…

Hinata dug his nails into his scalp and groaned.

_What the hell did I do?_

All of his insecurities had burst out of him as well.

It had happened, now and again, that he thought about it. What did Komaeda think of him? He wasn’t special. He was about as ordinary as it got. Yet, Komaeda stuck with him. Was it because he was a person who understood Komaeda’s way of thinking? Was it affection, between friends? He had thought they were friends, that they were more than just an understanding of one singular idea, one mode of thinking.

He remembered the way Komaeda’s voice had quivered, how his face had looked. Stricken.

Komaeda wasn’t used to being pushed like that. So smart, and yet…

Hinata laughed hollowly at himself, this situation. Had he ruined it? No, if he went up to Komaeda and apologised, he knew Komaeda would forgive him.

He didn’t want to lose him and he knew why. But, suddenly, he was afraid of that reason.

 

* * *

 

Komaeda hovered, anxious, staring at the closed door to Hinata’s apartment.

How many times had he been over here? Ever since they moved in, he’d spent far more time in Hinata’s apartment than his own. He chalked it up to the fact that Hinata was a good cook but that was far from being the reason. Hinata was important. Hinata was the reason that he did the things he did, the reason why he took a job close to his university, the reason why he got an apartment nearby, the reason for so many little things that he could hardly count them all until he sat down and really thought about it.

And here he was, unable to work up the courage to knock. Komaeda smiled, self-deprecating, and wondered when he started worrying so much about normal things. A fight, a falling out, it was so typical and yet…

It hurt so much more than he ever imagined.

However…

He daringly raised his hand and knocked, wincing as he did.

The door swung open at once and both he and Hinata stared, wide-eyed at each other.

 _He was waiting for me,_ Komaeda thought ( _realised_ ) with a shock to his system that was both red-hot and ice-cold.

Hinata’s face changed, from surprise, twisting into a look Komaeda had never seen. “Komaeda, I—”

“Hinata-kun,” he interrupted, quickly, “can I come in?”

Hinata hesitated… but he stepped to the side and Komaeda slid inside, cutting a glance sidelong at him as he proceeded further in. He toed out of his shoes, like it was habit, like he was coming into his own home, and Hinata followed slowly behind him, rubbing the back of his head and glancing around uncertainly. Komaeda had cut off his apology. He felt like he was at step one again.

He almost ran into the slender back in front of him, pulling up short as Komaeda turned to face him, slowly, looking at him.

“Hinata-kun, I could never be sick of you,” he declared, then put both of his hands on Hinata’s waist, pulled him in, and kissed him.

This wasn’t part of the plan, the things Komaeda had thought about before coming.

However, seeing Hinata look so helpless like that, he—

“You’re my reason for being here,” he said, softer, pulling back from Hinata’s open, lax mouth to see his stunned face. And a slow wash of colour into his cheeks that gave him hope as much as it made him nervous. Komaeda wasn’t one for running, but he was almost tempted in that moment, the moment before Hinata curled his arm around his waist and ducked his head down against Komaeda’s shoulder, balling the back of his shirt tight in his fist.

Hinata’s quavering little “sorry” and “thanks” weren’t precisely the kiss back he was hoping for, but…

Komaeda encircled his head with one arm and fluffed his fingers through his hair with a small smile. In their own way, even if it was unremarkable to everyone besides themselves, they would move forward.

Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :')
> 
> I meant for this to be a short drabble...


	2. makeshift: the case of souda kazuichi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The way Hinata said ‘special’ when he talked about Komaeda, the way his expression had softened, it had Souda wanting—wanting something, too. Something like that. Something special, fulfilling. Someone to fill something that he’d never noticed he was lacking before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year!! as a part of the new year, I'm compiling some of my series into one big work... i've done some editing here and there so maybe you'll notice the differences and additions

Souda Kazuichi felt about as out-as-place as you’d imagine.

His shoulders were hunched up and his back was flattened against the wall. All around him was the heavy bass of the club’s music, interspersed with a few sparse notes. What could be a melody, if you could be bothered to pick it out over that damn base line. His hair, freshly dyed _teal_ of all things, fell slightly into his face, and he blew at it before scraping it back with a jittery hand.

Why the hell did he take Hinata’s advice?

In the depths of Shinjuku Ni-chōme, he had come to this club at Hinata’s recommendation—all things considered, it wasn’t a sleazy or ugly bar, or anything of what he expected out of one of the clubs in the well-known gay district. Hibana was a smaller club, though, and it was more ordinary than he expected… no, shouldn’t he have expected it?

Hinata was a guy who didn’t stick out in a crowd (neither did Souda, save his garish hair colours and coloured contacts), so why would he go to one of the better known clubs just to be looked over in favour of whatever other people went there?

Souda wasn’t brave enough to visit somewhere like AiiRO or Dragon Men anyway…

This was a trial, after all. A trial!

It wasn’t like Souda was exclusively gay or anything, is what he told himself, he was just curious. And that wasn’t bad, damn it.

His meeting Hinata had come at the pinnacle of that curiosity. Hinata had come into the shop where he worked with his boyfriend (an unnervingly pretty man whose gaze sort of slid over him before focusing on him like he was trying to figure him out) and Souda was struck by the two of them. They weren’t what he expected at all.

Especially once he and Hinata had gotten to talking, and it had come around to that point.

_“Eh? Well, it’s not like I’m attracted to just any guy. I’ve liked girls before, too,” Hinata had said with a small frown. “But with Komaeda… He’s special. He’s always been special to me.”_

The way he said ‘special’, the way his expression had softened, that had Souda aching with want. He wanted something, too. Something like _that_. Something special, fulfilling. Not that he didn’t like whiling away his days at the shop or anything, working on cars and fixing things was his passion, but it felt a little empty to have his nose to the grindstone and nothing else. He was woefully bereft of hobby, his evenings often spent just picking at whatever pet project he was working on at home. His social life was even _more_ … he didn’t want to talk or even think about it. Nah.

(He’d never been good at forming friendships.)

…But he felt damn uncomfortable here.

 _What th’ hell did I expect?_ He thought grouchily, folding his arms over his chest as he scanned the crowds of dancers or chatting patrons. Except, as reluctant as he was to admit it, he’d expected something magical. Special, maybe. An immediate connection.

This was real life.

It was real life, so…

Thinking about leaving, Souda dug his hand into his pocket and fished out his phone, contemplating texting Hinata but eventually disregarding it. He and his boyfriend were probably busy being in love and stuff, no time to spare for Souda. Slumping his shoulders, he pushed off of the wall, mind made up, disappointment a bitter taste in his throat.

As he turned to the entrance, he saw it open, someone step inside with the same caution he’d had.

They— _he_ was short. With short-cropped blond hair, narrow eyes that swept the crowds with a strange caution, and a mouth held at an unhappy slant. Souda pulled up short, hand tightening around his phone. He watched the short man slip his way through the crowds until he pulled up by a wall, a small gap, and then he looked around some more.

Their eyes met.

Souda jolted and he saw the other man freeze, as if he’d been caught doing something by someone who he hadn’t meant to attract the attention of. He saw those eyes narrow as the man checked him out as much as possible. Feeling like his clothes were being peered through, Souda glowered over at him and put his arm defensively over his chest.

The man’s lips twitched at the corners into an amused smirk, and then he jerked his head.

_—Come here._

He was about the furthest from what Souda pictured as his own type. When he pictured himself getting with a guy, he was still picturing someone pretty, feminine. Maybe with long hair. Not exactly like Hinata’s boyfriend, but not that different.

He had _never_ pictured a smaller guy with short hair, dressed up in an outfit that made Souda feel underdressed—and he was wearing a button-down shirt! He never wore a button-down shirt! Sure, he wore a vest over it, a garish and bright one that clashed with his teal hair, but nevertheless. _That_ guy—blondie—he was wearing a button-down much better than Souda did, the sleeves folded up around his elbows, pinstripe slacks and what looked to be a loosely knotted tie.

Speaking of blondie, he was waiting. If the way his eyebrows were furrowing were any indication, he didn’t like being kept waiting.

 _Fuck it,_ Souda thought, throwing caution to the wind, and made his way over. He grunted when he was jostled, had to finagle his way around a very _exuberantly_ dancing couple, until he reached the far wall where blondie hadn’t moved an inch. He’d been watching the whole time, which is why Souda saw fit to gripe at him at once: “You couldn’ta met me halfway?”

The man laughed, and his voice was deeper than expected, deeper than either Hinata or Komaeda’s voices, cutting through even the noise. “You managed to get over here fine, didn’t you? Quit complaining.”

Souda huffed, annoyed and intrigued both. Being comfortable right off the bat when speaking to someone was a first for him. The only one who came close was Hinata, but Hinata was the easiest person in the world to chat with. Souda situated himself more comfortably against the wall next to the man, close enough their arms could brush—and neither of them shied from it. Souda’s heart was pounding in expectation, anticipation (even though it could honestly go nowhere), though the man next to him looked unruffled.

“Yer first time here too?” he tried, feeling a little bolder.

Blondie shrugged slightly, looking over at him. “This one, anyway,” he said. “I went to one of the bigger ones and I didn’t like it.”

“Tch, you’re braver than me. Like hell you’d catch me in a big club,” Souda complained.

“But a little one is fine?”

“Yeah, I mean, for a first time—” Souda clamped his lips shut and he glared out over the heads of the other people in the club. Damn it. He didn’t mean to say that much. He didn’t want to come off as some inexperienced virgin trying to glean his sexuality, even if that _was_ exactly what he was. But, after a silence, he dared to look over at his unexpected company.

Blondie was looking at him thoughtfully, even faintly smiling. “’S that so? Me too.”

Without realising, Souda relaxed. A minute stretched out as they looked at each other, Souda trying to figure this guy out, figure out if it was attraction or something else that he was feeling… and then a gloved hand grabbed him by the elbow. Huh. How had he missed that blondie was wearing gloves? They were short and leather, cut right at the end of his hands. They were kind of sexy, actually.

“Come on,” he said, pulling on Souda.

“Eh?” His mind whirled. “W-where?”

Blondie snorted. “Where else, idiot? Let’s dance.”

“I don’t dance,” Souda spluttered as he was tugged along by the abnormally strong shorter man, whose steely grip brooked no argument. “I’m gonna crush your feet, you know?”

“Not if I crush ‘em first. You better not stomp on me with those stupid boots,” the man countered and managed to get Souda out on the dance floor, twisting to face him. Souda’s boots were _not_ stupid, he wanted to tell him, they were his favourite! So what if they had pink and yellow on them? They went with the rest of him.

Kind of.

“Besides,” blondie continued loftily, “ain’t like I know how to dance either. So you don’t got any room to complain.”

Souda tried to glower, he really did, but he noticed at that moment, with the sudden proximity, that there was a charming beauty mark below the man’s lower lip, and a bare smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Heat tightened his stomach and he realised that yes, okay, he was very, _very_ attracted to this guy, whoever the hell he was.

“Your funeral,” Souda muttered and, unsure what to do with his hands, dropped them to the man’s waist. The man who stiffened at once, his own hands stopping where he’d been about to reach to Souda. Souda felt an unwelcome heat flaring in his cheeks and he glowered, immediately on the defensive and a wrong word away from fleeing. “ _What_?”

“Nothin’,” the man muttered, and then he was curling his hands into Souda’s belt loops. He found himself yanked close again, the bass so much present now when his impromptu dance partner who was clumsily trying to move himself to the beat.

“You’re worse at this than me,” Souda laughed, and stopped him with a squeeze to his hips. The man glared up at him, jerking like he was the one about to run away this time. “Oi, you better not ditch me! You ain’t goin’ anywhere since _you_ dragged me out here.”

They were both tense, nervous wrecks. Honestly. What the hell were they doing somewhere like this?

Still, Souda gently pulled that body in a new rhythm, shifting one hand to drag the man’s hand up to his shoulder. The man arched his eyebrow at him, uncertain but cautiously interested, and Souda pressed closer to him, tossing glances around them to try to figure out how to move. It was less a dance than—well. Something else. Slow presses of their bodies that came together and apart, again and again, both of them gradually relaxing as they figured out something more comfortable.

“If the song changes, we’re screwed,” Souda commented and his partner laughed, a laugh that transformed his face. Heart jumping into his throat as _affection_ seized his chest, he ducked his head and said into his ear, “Name’s Souda.”

The hand at his shoulder slid up his shoulder, gloved (and ringed) fingers gripping the back of his neck. Static fizzled in his brain. “Kuzuryuu,” blondie replied, turning his mouth right against Souda’s ear, his lips barely grazing the studs in his earlobe.

 _A manly name for a short guy,_ Souda thought inanely and tightened one hand on his hip.

Predictably, the song changed, something heavier and headier… or maybe it was all in Souda’s head, because Kuzuryuu pulled slightly from him, scrutinising his face, before bringing them back closer than before. It wasn’t a dance anymore. Souda didn’t think so, at least. Charged by _something_ , every shift of their bodies had changed into a grind.

Kuzuryuu’s fingers splayed on the small of his back, under his vest, before dragging down to slip into one of the back pockets of his jeans. His fingers spread apart there and he gripped at his ass as much as he pushed Souda’s hips forward against his own.

Souda shuddered.

Was this happening? Was this really happening? Holy shit.

The way his jeans had gone tight said _yeah_ , it really was. _Guess I’m bi or something?_ Souda thought in a frenzy, wanting to laugh but not wanting to waste the time required to do so. Kuzuryuu had twisted his other hand in Souda’s mess of teal hair, dragging him down closer to him.

“What the hell kinda colour is this?” Kuzuryuu muttered.

“It’s cool,” Souda replied, too breathless to be defensive. On a spur of the moment he added, “It’s usually jus’ black.”

Kuzuryuu gave him a curious half-smile, his face flushed (or was that the lights?) and pulled him in to kiss him.

It was nothing like whatever half-hearted kisses he’d gotten in the past, when he’d muscle his way into spin the bottle or whatever other stupid game that stupid kids played.

It was messy and clumsy and he’s sure someone around them was looking their way, someone else probably thought _these idiots are doing it wrong_ , but it felt good, hot, right, and Souda pushed into him. Their hips ground, the hand in his back pocket tightened, and Kuzuryuu stabbed his tongue into his mouth without waiting for him.

 _Impatient,_ Souda thought, but he sucked that tongue in further, so he probably was too.

He wasn’t sure how or when they got through the crush of bodies. He was only aware of a door opening behind him, slamming shut behind him, another one opening and then his back hitting what was the wall of a toilet stall.

“We seriously doin’ this in a bathroom?” Souda gasped as he broke away. Kuzuryuu looked at him angrily (or was it hungrily?) and twisted his hands in Souda’s belt loops again. A yank that had Kuzuryuu pushing against him, hardness pressing insistently into his thigh, and Souda rethought complaining, shut up when he was kissed again.

“Just enjoy it, idiot,” Kuzuryuu muttered to his mouth. There was an undercurrent of desperation.

_If just for now, I want to understand. I want to keep this, I want to know what it’s like, I don’t want to be alone._

A love hotel would have been a better choice, but Souda doubted in this moment that either of them were brave enough to leave here side-by-side, to walk down the road, to rent into a love hotel. He doubted either of them were patient enough, either. Souda had come here with his hood over his head, trying to pretend he was anyone but himself, nervous about a co-worker or someone else catching him. But he’d taken the risk because, hell, what did he have to lose?

He’d taken the risk because he thought, just for a second, _maybe I’ll find something special_.

Kuzuryuu’s hips grinding against his wasn’t quite the _special_ he had pictured, but he didn’t want it to stop, either. One of his hands dropped and he was the one to fumble at Kuzuryuu’s slacks first, popping the button one-handed, digging his fingers in between his legs with his heart jumping up in his throat. When he felt the press of his cock against his palm, he was hit with a sublime relief that there was only heat, a _pleasant_ jerk of his stomach.

“Guess ‘m all right with guys after all,” he muttered without thinking to Kuzuryuu’s gasping mouth.

“You seriously didn’t realise that until now? Asshole.”

But Kuzuryuu laughed and he made Souda choke when he kneaded at the front of his jeans hard enough to have Souda seeing stars. It took fumbling for both of them to get their pants open and, when they did, Souda stopped a moment, his eyebrows scrunching. Then, leaning close to Kuzuryuu’s ear, he bit at it first (rewarded by his grunt) and said: “Check my pocket?”

When Kuzuryuu fished out the packets of condoms, he snorted.

“You didn’t know if you were fine with guys and you came with condoms anyway,” Kuzuryuu chuckled and Souda hated and loved how easy it was, how simple it was to gripe a _so what?_ at him even as Kuzuryuu pressed their hips flush, frowning at the angle as he struggled with the packets in his hands. An idea whirled into his head but he waited until Kuzuryuu had ripped open packets, rolled the condoms over them.

Then he moved, step by step, forcing Kuzuryuu back, waiting until he was pinned against the opposite wall before he hooked his arms under him. It was a very scary thing, the idea of dropping him as he lifted him up, but he didn’t, though Kuzuryuu didn’t seem to be particularly pleased by being lifted up, even if it put them on eye level, even if it had Souda’s dick grinding against him at a far, _far_ better angle than before.

“Fucker,” Kuzuryuu snarled and yanked his hair, jerking him back to kiss him.

He swore _a lot_ , Souda realised. Whenever they ground together, when Kuzuryuu’s legs reluctantly hooked around his hips, Kuzuryuu muffled a curse or swear. When Souda dropped his hands underneath to grip at his ass and push him so they’d slide well, Kuzuryuu bit his lower lip before moaning into his mouth. He growled, grunted, but the moment their mouths came apart he was trying to keep quiet.

So Souda kept kissing, not like he wanted to break away. He licked the mark under his lower lip, sucked Kuzuryuu’s lip until it was swollen and kept sucking, teasing his tongue over it, until he was sure they’d exchanged more saliva than was healthy. He tasted good, like he’d brushed his teeth before coming, like he spent hours fussing like Souda had, and Souda could only guess he tasted like cola, because he’d downed more than a few bottles of it to give him energy for the night.

His arms and body were beginning to ache from trying to keep holding Kuzuryuu up, but it was easy to forget, especially when Kuzuryuu quaked in his arms. When he felt his toes curl against Souda’s back, he fumbled a hand as best as he could between them to wrap his hand around Kuzuryuu, stroking him hard from base to tip, thumb pressing against the slick cover of the condom.

Kuzuryuu came at the same time he encircled Souda’s arms with his shoulders, when he buried his face against the side of his neck, when he gripped so tight it was entirely likely he’d never let go.

_That wouldn’t be so bad._

It was funny, hearing that voice muffled into his neck, low and sweet. It was funny that it was the thing that made him stop, shudder, sure it wasn’t the friction or Kuzuryuu’s touch so much as his voice that made him come. Souda leaned his weight on him, both to make sure he didn’t drop him and to make sure _he_ didn’t drop right to the bathroom floor.

It was probably dirty. Thank god they’d done this against the walls.

As the adrenaline slowly cooled, Souda reflected on what was happening right now. Kuzuryuu puffed ragged breaths into the side of his neck, one of his hands shakily dragging through Souda’s hair, again and again. In the bathroom of a gay club, he—well. Did he regret it? Did he want to run away now?

Not really. And that was a surprise, given his habit of running away from bad things.

Kuzuryuu fit comfortably in his arms and _he_ hadn’t struggled yet. He did give Souda’s back a few slaps with a vague “put me down”, though, and Souda did, expecting him to leave, maybe thank him for the good time, the help in figuring out his sexuality. He didn’t do any of them. He pulled off the condom, but the moment it was tied, he did the same for Souda and buckled up his pants. Uncertain, Souda did the same, the bathroom full of awkward silence.

What the hell did you say at a time like this?

Kuzuryuu looked up at him and Souda saw the same question on his face so, impulsively, Souda kissed his mouth, backing him up against the wall again. He heard a muffled laugh and thought _yeah, this was the right answer_.

Right answer until he felt a buzzing in his pocket.

Frowning, he looked down, but Kuzuryuu was the one who sighed. “That’s mine,” he grumbled and dug his phone from his pocket—a small and sleek number, like its owner. While still in the bathroom with Souda half-pressed against him, he tapped it and placed it to his ear. “What?”

Souda watched with interest, shifting back to at least go throw their condoms out while Kuzuryuu followed him from the stall. He saw the expressions on his face change from surprise, then to disappointment, then to anger.

“…Fuck. Fine. I’ll come, then,” he bit out. “ _No_ , I don’t need a fucking car. Tell them not to do anything else stupid until I get there.”

Souda stuck his hands in his pockets, wondering at himself. Should he be that interested in watching Kuzuryuu’s face and expression change? Should he be proud that there was still a relaxed, satisfied burr to his voice even as the aggravation covered it up? He was _definitely_ proud of the lingering flush on his cheeks and—oops. It looked like he’d left a hickey at the side of Kuzuryuu’s neck.

Oh well.

“Gotta get goin’?” Souda asked, doing his best to be casual as Kuzuryuu hung up and pocketed his phone, his eyebrows furrowed and his fingers fixing at his tie.

“Yeah.”

They walked out into the club together, headed toward the entrance like it was natural to go now that they’d shared _that_ in the bathroom. What was it, Souda wondered? Were they going to start going out now? They didn’t know each other. They _didn’t_ and yet he felt oddly hesitant about just leaving, keeping this as a good memory and nothing else.

They sucked down the cool night air outside and Souda reached back, tugging his hood up over his head, rubbing a finger under his nose, sniffling against the lingering winter chill. Kuzuryuu was quiet next to him, but they shared the sidewalk for time.

At an intersection, they both stopped, half-turned in different directions. Souda hesitated, so did Kuzuryuu.

And then, brusque, Kuzuryuu shoved something into his hand and Souda belatedly noticed it was the hand he’d been fisting in his pocket the whole time. “Here.” Without an explanation, without waiting for Souda to respond, he fisted his hand in Souda’s collar and yanked him down to kiss him before turning on his heel and stalking off.

Unfolding his hand, dazed, Souda looked at the crumpled business card and the cell phone number there.

 

* * *

 

“Oi, Souda, another customer!”

“Ye—aaah,” Souda called back, rolling out from under the car he’d just finished. Wiping grease and oil off onto a rag that was just as (if not more so) greasy and oily as he was right now. For the fourth time today (but about the hundredth or two hundredth time since that _night_ ) he thought about the wrinkled business card in his phone case and thought again about when he was actually going to call.

It’d been almost a week and Souda had yet to find the courage. It was funny that the moment he and Kuzuryuu parted his sense returned to him.

By sense, it meant his pessimism.

Souda stood and stretched, working out his stiff back and picking up his toolbox set nearby. He didn’t really keep track of customers, just did whatever the boss told him to. When he was working on cars, motorcycles and other things he could forget about the night for a little while. It came back and left him staring at his phone every night, thinking Kuzuryuu was probably pissed he hadn’t called him yet, but he was the type who put off things that made him nervous.

 _I wanna see him again,_ he thought as he headed to the garage door.

When he opened it, he saw a short man, blond, in a crisp business suit, idly juggling the keys to his vehicle in his hand. He turned toward Souda and he froze as Souda did. It was a coincidence. This stuff happened every day, didn’t it?

It was like a romantic comedy. It was ridiculous at the same time it wasn’t _so_ strange.

And, the first thing Kuzuryuu said, spluttering, was:

“Your hair’s _pink_ now?!”


	3. soupçon: the case of hanamura teruteru

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was it so bad to experiment? Hanamura wanted to make the best food possible, even if he was stuck in this restaurant that wasn’t anywhere near where he wanted to work. But he was still improving. He was always improving, as a chef, as a cook, but without somewhere to practice his own skills, it was… difficult.
> 
> Hanamura is stuck in one place, without anywhere else he can go.

“Got it, Hanamura? It’s great you want to try new things, but save it for at home.”

“Yes, boss.”

Hanamura Teruteru watched his boss walk off, leaving him in the kitchen—and he slumped bodily, sighing heavily. His hair bobbed downward dejectedly and the feeling swept back again to fill him up: that dissatisfaction. Was it so bad to experiment? He wanted to make the best food possible, even if he was stuck in this restaurant that wasn’t anywhere near where _he_ wanted to work. But he was still improving. He was always improving, as a chef, as a cook, but without somewhere to practice his own skills, it was… difficult.

He couldn’t quit, either. He had to bend or find somewhere better.

But that was hard. It was hard when he wasn’t recognised. Sniffing, Hanamura thumbed at the side of his nose and got back to work, snatching up the newest order that had come. By the books, by the books, he reminded himself despite an itching to spice up the food. Were people really satisfied with the same meals every single day? Didn’t they want to try new things?

Even his mother’s cooking, while the same and comfortable by being the same, was different every time. In some small, simple way.

 _I decided to try this,_ she’d say with a laugh.

Every time, it was delicious.

 _He_ wanted to do that. Here, anywhere, he wanted customers to experience that.

He sniffled again and then shook his head, trying to fight down his feelings. Work, work. He had to work.

“Hanamura-kun?” one of the servers called into the kitchen and he looked up with surprise. “It’s, er, table eight. They wanted to speak with you.”

Eight? That was… the one who had just ordered, that he had spiced up a bit. That his boss had been too late to catch and stop. His stomach dropped out and he swallowed hard, but he pasted a smile on his face anyway, wiping his hands and chirping, “Got it! I’ll be right there!”

Was he going to be fired? Ugh…

Hurrying out, he scanned the restaurant, intent on seeing who he was going to deal with before he went over.

One of the people was—large. However large they were, however, they sat with an air of ease, comfortable in their own body. Hanamura squinted and he had a hard time for a second, trying to distinguish whether or not they were a man or a woman. Their companion, though, was definitely a girl. Her hair was brighter than anybody’s hair that Hanamura had ever seen before, twisted into strange… horns? Those were horns?! She was talking a mile a minute at her companion, who nodded occasionally. Her face contorted and, even watching from here, he was sure she went through nearly twenty expressions in that time.

Hanamura steeled himself and approached, folding his hands together as he reached the table and offering his best business grin. “I’m the che—the cook. You wanted to talk to me?”

The large person looked his way, gazing down at him with their hair falling slightly over his forehead. The girl turned too, _rounded_ more like with motions more abrupt than Hanamura had expected. She was smiling, big and bright, which turned into a toothy grin.

“I order the same thing every time we come here,” the person began, slowly, and the girl stuck her hand in the air like she wanted to answer a question. “Not now, Mioda.”

“Ibuki gets something different every time!” she declared with gusto, ignoring her companion.

They sighed. But then continued, “I order the same thing. I did again today. However, it was different… was it you who made the changes to it?”

Hanamura nodded stiffly.

The girl—Mioda Ibuki—still had her hand in the air, like she didn’t feel like putting it down. She was swaying back and forth, smiling and waiting like she had another answer she wanted to give to the class. She went ignored, though Hanamura did give her quick looks, pleas for help (she didn’t notice).

The person shifted, bracing their arm on the table and looking down at Hanamura—he tried not to quail, feeling incredibly intimidated by their stare. “…It was good. I wanted to thank you.”

“Yahoo! Yuto-chan’s seal of approval!” Ibuki belted out, causing other patrons to glance their way.

The so-called Yuto gave her a tired look before turning back to Hanamura. “I’m sorry for calling you out of the kitchen. That was all I wanted to say.” They shifted, looking back at the table and reaching for their drink. Before they took a sip they seemed to remember something and said to the shell-shocked Hanamura: “I’ve never liked people changing recipes. This world is full of unexpected, unwelcome things, and sometimes all you want at the end of the day is something familiar.”

He (Hanamura thought) frowned, as if recalling something unpleasant, but continued: “However, I suppose I was wrong today. I wouldn’t mind if you changed the recipe when we come here again.”

Hanamura felt weak on his legs and could only nod several times.

Ibuki laughed, kicking her chair back and strumming out a guitar riff in the air. “Yuto-chan! That’s good deed #1 today! Ibuki will have a grand prize prepared! Chef-chan!” Hanamura jolted, something hot and pleased filling him. _Chef_ , she had said, without realising the impact it had on him. “Do you have any cake?! Yuto-chan loves cake!”

“W-we have mille-feuille today,” Hanamura stammered.

“Then two of—” Ibuki struggled, her face warping comically as she tried to pronounce it but, in the end, gave up, under Yuto’s exasperated stare. “—two of those! Okay, chef-chan?!”

Hanamura could only nod, rushing back into his kitchen.

His face felt hot and he covered it with both hands, fighting the enormous grin that wanted to burst on his face. It had started off hard, but maybe this day wouldn’t be so bad after all? All right! He was going to flirt and present the dessert well and with proper flair this time!

Determined, he hurried off to get it ready.

 

* * *

 

 

Suzuki Yuto and Mioda Ibuki were, by far, Hanamura’s strangest guests. They’d been regulars for as long as the restaurant had been around, some of the others told him. Since it was going on eight years now since it had opened, it was no small feat—they’d been there since before _Hanamura_ had even been hired. Suzuki ordered the same thing every single time (in an extra-large serving), had a critical eye and a pessimistic attitude, but Mioda was his blaring opposite, always noisy, positive, and strange. She never stopped grinning and always had a laugh or another (often weird) comment ready.

None of the staff knew how the hell to handle them.

 

* * *

 

Slowly, after that first meeting, Hanamura began to dally, to linger, especially when they specifically requested they show his face—specifically, Mioda did, by hollering _Chef-chan_! toward the kitchens until he hurried out before he could get into trouble.

“It’s Hanamura Teruteru, actually,” he introduced himself after the third time it’d happened.

Suzuki grunted as though to say _she already knew that, because I told her_ but Mioda brightened like she’d never heard it before.

“I’m Mioda Ibuki!” she declared happily. “And this is Suzuki Yuto-chan!”

After a while, he had to ask: “How did you two meet?”

“High school,” Suzuki replied dryly, as if he had gotten the question a lot. “We happened to be in band together. She wouldn’t leave me alone and we’ve been stuck together ever since.”

“Ehhh— Yuto-chan would get lonely if Ibuki wasn’t around!”

It was altogether one of the strangest friendships Hanamura had ever seen. However, it worked… kind of. At the very least, why would they come here so often together if they didn’t enjoy being around one another? It was impossible. Maybe. He’d spent more than one day wondering, as well, if they weren’t lovers of a kind.

When he asked _that_ one, Suzuki choked and Mioda laughed so hard she fell out of her chair.

“Ibuki would marry Yuto-chan and he’d be her bride, but Yuto-chan doesn’t want to,” she got out between gasping giggles.

“I don’t hate myself, so I would never,” Suzuki followed up grimly.

Lovers was out.

Best friends, then.

It gave Hanamura lots of leeway to begin hitting on them and making inappropriate comments—neither of which seemed to surprise them. Eh? Did he come off like a pervert? He was so often in Business Mode in the restaurant that he thought it would be a shock. Then again, he’d like to see the thing that really shocked Suzuki.

 

* * *

 

“Fufu, Suzuki-kun, you’re looking dazzling again today,” Hanamura greeted as he bustled out to see the two when they were settled in their usual seat. He’d learned to be quick over the weeks he’d been talking and getting to know them, otherwise Mioda would go shouting and cheering for _Teruteru-chan_. “And Mioda-san’s…” He paused, peering. “…Do you have new streaks in your hair?”

“Heh heh heh, as expected of Teruteru-chan,” Mioda said, pitching her voice deep and dramatic as she did so. She tossed her wealth of hair and nearly hit a server passing by behind her. “I’ve got one new orange streak! I think I’ll call it…” She paused, looking off into the distance, hand poised at her chin, leaving her waiting audience in suspense. “…orange.”

“Ahaha, you’re fun as usual, Mioda-san,” Hanamura laughed.

(He couldn’t make sense of her, either. It made her enormously difficult to make passes at. He’d more-or-less given up by now.)

“I’ll have the usual,” Suzuki said.

“Ibuki wants to be surprised!” Mioda added, thrusting her fist in the air.

“Roger,” Hanamura replied, delighted, and hurried off. Mioda was always a pleasure to make food for—he knew he was breaking the rules somewhat, but he took things that weren’t _necessarily_ on the menu, making them look like they _seemed_ like they belonged on the menu. As for Suzuki… well, Hanamura prepared his usual, garnishing it here and there, upping both the appearance and the taste (in his own personal opinion) and beaming happily at his handiwork.

They’d asked him, not long after they’d begun to talk regularly, why he was here. Hanamura had shrugged lightly and gave a non-committal answer. He was here because he was stuck here, he thought at the time. He was here because there wasn’t any choice, he was here because, in comparison to the amazing chefs in the city, he was still learning. He was still a novice, as proud as he felt over many of his dishes.

But cooking like he really wanted to was so much better than doing every single thing by the boring menu, by the boring instructions, by the boring—

“Hanamura.”

Hanamura’s shoulders jolted and he turned around, looking hesitantly up at the owner, who was looking over his head at the dishes prepared nearby. In a low voice, he said, “Those don’t look like our regular items.”

His voice dried up in his throat and he fought the sudden and absurd urge to cry.

He shouldn’t cry.

But all he wanted to do was make something special for the two people who appreciated it, Mioda who cupped her face and went _uooooohhhhh!!_ every time he presented her with something new, and to Suzuki who nodded his approval in a subtle way, but that quiet way made it even more special. Their eyes would sparkle, even if no-one noticed it but Hanamura. He remembered good things when he served food to them.

His friends. Not just his customers. They were… they were…

“Excuse me.”

The voice made both Hanamura and the boss freeze.

When the latter turned around, he saw what Hanamura could already see. Suzuki stood not far away, his arms folded over his chest, his cool eyes switching between Hanamura and his employer. “I requested that Hanamura make those for us,” he said.

Hanamura could see his boss flounder, recognising regulars, but then that back straighten. “I’m afraid our restaurant isn’t supposed to modify our menu items this much, sir,” he replied. Suzuki’s cool gaze chilled further and, with her hair bouncing, Mioda joined him with her fingers linked together behind her back.

“Ibuki likes Teruteru-chan’s cooking!” she chimed in brightly.

She went largely ignored, except for the teary-eyed Hanamura himself. She gave him a dazzling look and he felt those tears threatening much worse than before. Ah… oh, no…

Suzuki was in heated discussion with the boss but, judging by the latter’s tone of voice, it wasn’t going well. Hanamura wanted to shrink back into himself, that threat of his job, his livelihood, threatening him that much more than before. What would he do if he lost it? This was all his fault. He should just apologise, promise never to do it again even if he risked whatever tenuous relationship that he had with Mioda and Suzuki.

He opened his mouth to do so—and stopped.

But. They were…

“…fine. Then, I’ll ask you give him to us,” Suzuki was saying, and Hanamura blinked. He looked quickly to Suzuki. “I have a job that would suit his skills far better than being stuck here.”

His boss was going as red as a tomato, not even noticing as Mioda slunk past him, reached out and took Hanamura by the hand. Any other day he might be delighted or embarrassed to have a girl holding his hand, but currently his shock was too great. He forgot anything but watching Suzuki’s cool, unyielding expression as Mioda dragged him from the restaurant.

“Ummm. Mioda-san,” he said after a long moment, after she had gotten him out and they walked down the street with her bouncing happily along next to him, “what, um. What was Suzuki-kun talking about?”

“Ah, that!” Mioda grinned. “Me and Yuto-chan are opening a restaurant! Er, no, a live venue!” She paused again. “A maid café? Mm! All of those!”

“Mioda-san, that’s a bit much…”

“We’ve been looking a long time for a good chef-chan to ask to work with us,” Mioda continued, undaunted, “but it’s always been hard. Yuto-chan is really smart, you know? He trades in all kinds of things, but he was bored when Ibuki met him! And Ibuki’s always wanted a place to perform her music—” She performed a guitar riff in the air again. “—so she said, why don’t we do something like this?! It took forever to convince Yuto-chan, you know…”

Groaning, she slumped over and shook her head. Hanamura still wasn’t sure he had his head wrapped around everything. But…

“So, you and Suzuki-kun… want me to be your chef?”

“Bingo!” Mioda winked and pantomimed firing a gun at him. “Teruteru-chan’s food is our favourite! We want you to be our chef-chan!”

“But I haven’t even… I’m just an ordinary cook,” Hanamura floundered. He’d always wanted to be a chef. He’d always wanted to cook the way he wanted, even if that wasn’t the way everyone else wanted him to. He wanted to—his dream had always been to—

“Uwaa! T-Teruteru-chan! Don’t cry?!”

“Honestly,” a voice sighed behind them. “Why are you crying? I thought you would like our offer.”

Suzuki was there, frowning, arms over his chest as he approached him far quicker than anyone might expect someone of his girth to move. “Does that mean you don’t want it?”

“This doesn’t really feel—feel—” Hanamura sniffled pathetically, rubbing his eyes, struggling to say what he wanted. He missed the glance Suzuki and Mioda exchanged, or when Mioda bounced closer, rubbing his back with the palm of her hand.

“Ibuki would be happy if Teruteru-chan was our chef. And Ibuki thinks Teruteru-chan would be happier, too.” She smiled. “Sometimes sad things happen or… you can’t do what you want! Ibuki knows what that’s like. So we should do what little things make us happy! Ibuki and Yuto-chan were a bit too late to keep Teruteru-chan from being sad at all, but from now on, we’ll have lots and lots of fun! Right? Teruteru-chan.”

Sniffling and sobbing (relief, relief, finally, _finally_ ) in the middle of the sidewalk, he could only grip her outstretched hand.

 

* * *

 

“No no no no, Teruteru-chan,” said Mioda magnanimously, “you don’t understand the appeal of a long skirt… with a short skirt, there’s no surprise! If it’s longer, there’s the intrigue, the mystery! There’s a surprise, but short skirts are too obvious!”

Suzuki pinched between his eyebrows, thoroughly regretting (at this moment) having met either of them. They were all crammed into his office, and _those two_ had no concept of what was good or proper conversation, or even what was important. Did they have to think about rental fees? About the cost of kitchen equipment? No.

“It’s you who doesn’t understand, Mioda-san,” Hanamura sighed, shaking his head. “With short skirts, there is mystery! _Ah, when will it be too short?_ _Will I catch a tantalizing glimpse…?_ That’s the mystery in our hearts!”

“I respect your opinion, Teruteru-chan,” Mioda replied grimly, “but… I’m long skirt sect! Ibuki might wear short skirts, but she believes in the power of the long skirt!”

Hanamura reeled back, clutching his chest, betrayed.

“Both of you are idiots,” Suzuki said flatly, pouring over paperwork. “It’s not going to be a maid café.”

Devastated shouts of _Yuto-chan!_ and _Suzuki-kun!_ rang out into the night as their restaurant’s plans were forestalled for yet another day…


	4. shikake waza: the case of pekoyama peko

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neither she nor Tsumiki were satisfied with their lot in life, as it were, Pekoyama thought. Working at a dojo was all well and good but it left her desiring for something more. She had never really put much time into pondering over it, not until she’d heard Tsumiki say words that she herself had never dared to voice. With their meeting, Pekoyama decides that it's time to start changing.

The hospital waiting room was—white. Very white. A white that told all who lingered in it that they were in a place sick people came. Pekoyama Peko sat, stiff-backed, in one of the chairs, her hands folded in her lap and her gaze fixed straight ahead. She barely stirred, not a bit, not even as periodic pangs went up her leg, her hip.

It had been an accident.

At the kendo dojo where she worked as an assistant teacher, there had been an incident, an accident. The student had been horrified when Pekoyama collapsed, unable to hold her weight upon her leg, gasping while her mind worked furiously to try and figure out whether or not something had been broken. But after the fact, Pekoyama blamed no-one but herself.

She must be ready for the students to make mistakes, she must be prepared.

Injury, however… it was such a troublesome thing.

She bit on, swallowed her sigh and switched her gaze toward the clock.

“P-P-Pekoyama Peko-san…?”

The sound of her name in a timid, cringing voice had her looking up. A thin girl was clutching a clipboard too tight—she looked like she hadn’t slept peacefully in some time and she acted as out-of-place here as Pekoyama felt, even though she wore a uniform that quite clearly stated she belonged _here_. Slowly, Pekoyama stood, bracing her weight on a pair of crutches they had given her, awkwardly making her way over to the girl with her flyaway hair and her wide eyes.

“I-I’m sorry, to make you walk over here,” she stammered, timid. “I should’ve gotten a wheelchair.”

“It’s fine,” Pekoyama replied stiffly, trying not to show her pain.

With that, the wincing girl moved to lead her inside. She watched the girl’s back—she was like the frightened animals that hated Pekoyama, or like the children who occasionally jumped or jolted around her, but followed her instructions dutifully during classes.

“Th… the doctor will be with you in a few minutes.”

They’d reached a door and the girl guided Pekoyama inside, hovering anxiously until she had sat in the indicated chair and leaned the crutches nearby. She didn’t leave even when Pekoyama was settled and, unable to _not_ focus on the girl’s fidgeting, she glanced her way.

“Yes?” she prompted.

The girl jumped, as if _she_ hadn’t realised that she should have left the room by now, surely had other things to attend to. “I-I-I’m so sorry! I should leave, but…” She wrung her hands. “Do you… could I have a look at your leg for you?”

Pekoyama’s eyebrows lifted minutely and she looked the girl over again. “…are you a nurse?”

The girl slumped. “J-just a medical student,” she replied in leaden tones, as though saying as much disappointed her. _Just_ a medical student seemed like an impressive feat to Pekoyama, who found menial studies difficult enough and had opted instead to work at the dojo near her home shortly after her high school graduation. She had enjoyed a position as captain of the kendo club in high school, had taken several medals home from various tournaments and competitions, but it was difficult for her to progress after that.

She didn’t dislike teaching, but… she had thought her abilities would be more recognised.

And now here she was with an aching leg, unable to teach, even if she wished to.

So, strangely, the girl’s reaction resonated with her. She was _just_ a medical student. Pekoyama was _just_ an assistant teacher at a dojo. She shifted her weight to her uninjured leg, bracing one of her arms on the arm of the chair in case the girl wished for her to extend it. The girl, flustered, hurried to her and said, quickly, “You don’t need to move, Pekoyama-san!”

Pekoyama said nothing, watching instead as the girl knelt before her. Her face became serious expression as she looked at the swelling, the angry mark left from a kendo sword, touching delicately with her fingertips. When she pressed into the muscle, Pekoyama bit her tongue hard but didn’t shout, but the girl reacted just as if she had shouted anyway.

“I-it’s not broken,” she supplied at last, and Pekoyama nearly sagged with relief. “But it’s damaged here, and the muscles in the rest of your leg have been pulled… um, if I had to guess what the doctor’s going to say, it’ll probably be a lot of bedrest and careful exercises to maintain mobility once the swelling goes down.”

Pekoyama breathed out heavily. “…I supposed as much.”

The girl cringed, hurrying to stand and stammering out, “B-but I’m just a student, I could be wrong! I hope… I hope it isn’t that serious, Pekoyama-san! I should… should go…” She shuffled backward, nearly catching herself on the edge of a chair leg but quickly grabbing onto the wall at the last moment. Pekoyama watched her, hesitating, but.

“…What is your name?”

The girl stopped, shooting her an uncertain look.

“You know mine. I do not know yours,” Pekoyama continued tightly, not certain why she felt embarrassed.

“It’s… Tsumiki Mikan. Y-you don’t have to remember it or anything, but…”

“Tsumiki. Understood.” After a small, uncomfortable silence elapsed, Pekoyama added: “Thank you.”

The girl—Tsumiki—quivered before ducking a deep bow and hurrying out of the room. For a bizarre reason, Pekoyama almost wished to bid her stay, bid her explain what she meant when she used the tone she had to say _just_ a medical student. However Pekoyama, not good with people and the type who had never been, said nothing and just gazed at the closed door until the doctor slid inside to tell her very much the same as what Tsumiki had.

 

* * *

 

“Pekoyama-saaaaaaaaan!” Tsumiki’s wail cut through the waiting room.

Pekoyama shut her eyes, sighed, and said quietly and solemnly: “I am ashamed.”

She held one of her arms gingerly, sloppily bound so it wouldn’t be jostled around too much, and gazed determinedly at the wall and not at Tsumiki as she fussed and fretted. It had been approximately a week since Pekoyama had last come to the hospital. A week that had gone very well. She had rested. She had done what the doctor had told her.

It drove her crazy to be still and unproductive, but she did so.

“T-trying to get something heavy down from a high shelf by yourself is too dangerous. E-even when y-you’re not already injured,” Tsumiki sniffled loudly after she had led Pekoyama (still on crutches, but more mobile now) down to the room she had been in last time.

“My mother was not able to, and my father was not home.”

“S-still! No more strenuous activity, Pekoyama-san! It’s good that it only looks like you sprained it,” Tsumiki fussed tearfully, her hands carefully (with the gentleness of a medical professional) touching over Pekoyama’s wrist, up her aching arm. “If it had been worse, that would be terrible…!”

Wondering a moment why she spared so much concern to Pekoyama (she had always thought doctors and nurses were more distant), she could find nothing to say, simply allowing Tsumiki to touch, all the way up to Pekoyama’s shoulders.

“Eh? Pekoyama-san?” Tsumiki paused, looking in bewilderment at one shoulder.

“What is it?” Tensing up, anticipating being informed of yet another injury, Pekoyama looked at Tsumiki… who began to blush, lifting both of her hands to her face. Pekoyama was bewildered.

“I just thought that—y-you have a surprising amount of muscle… I couldn’t tell from your leg…”

“Ah.” Pekoyama relaxed. So that was all. “I teach kendo.”

“Kendo?!”

“Yes. I have been doing it since I was young,” Pekoyama explained, with the same stirring of pride she always felt when asked about kendo. Glancing at Tsumiki, she saw her widened eyes, the amazement on her face, and that pride strengthened further still.

“Th-that’s amaziiing…”

“Not that amazing,” Pekoyama replied, a little tickled nevertheless to receive such praise. “Unfortunately, I was unable to get much further than being a teacher, and only an assistant at that.” Tsumiki blinked, her hands lowering from her mouth, lips shaping an ‘o’ and something in the way that she looked at Pekoyama. “Hm?”

“U-um, Pekoyama-san, do you…”

At that moment, the door swung open, though the doctor paused. He looked at Tsumiki—

In a way that, at once, made Pekoyama narrow her eyes. She didn’t like the look of him, all of a sudden, the way that his eyes gazed at Tsumiki like they were looking less at an aspiring nurse than at…

The back of her neck prickled and her hand itched for a practice sword, as much as she knew not to turn it against a human being. It was odd, the heat in her stomach that told her that this human being might deserve it, in the end.

“Tsumiki, shouldn’t you be working?” the doctor said, and she cringed. Not in the same way she flinched the first time Pekoyama had spoken at length with her, but a motion that belied something completely different.

She was _actually_ afraid?

“Y-yeees! I’m sorry!” she burst out and hurried from the room.

Feeling a cold tingling in her still, Pekoyama watched the doctor with unblinking eyes as he told her just what Tsumiki had about her arm, advising little more than one would expect from a doctor. His manner was fine, professional. He said nothing offensive. However, something nagged at Pekoyama and, as she levered herself onto her crutches, struggling only briefly with the sling before she found a comfortable position, she thought to ask Tsumiki of it.

_Are you in danger?_

Could she ask her such a thing?

No, it would be strange. Pekoyama knew that much, at least. She frowned as she headed back out into the hallway.

“Um…”

And then, as if summoned by her thoughts, there was Tsumiki, timidly holding the handles of a wheelchair. “I-if it’s okay with you, Pekoyama-san… I thought I could help you out?” she offered, wincing when Pekoyama looked at her but daring to glance back, in timid glimpses from underneath her eyelashes.

Battling with her pride, Pekoyama nevertheless stepped to the wheelchair, lowering herself down into it. Tsumiki took the crutches from her, tucking them onto the back of the wheelchair. “…Thank you. My ride is waiting for me.”

Tsumiki nodded and began to push the wheelchair down the hall. Fighting the strangeness of being so helpless, she rested her hand on her knee and thought of other things. One in particular occurred to her and she glanced back over her shoulder, through strands of hair toward Tsumiki. “You were going to say something before.”

“Eeeh?!” Tsumiki made a high, dismayed noise, drawing the disapproving eye of passing doctors or nurses. She promptly ducked her head low, whispering something like ‘it wasn’t important’.

“I am interested in what it was,” Pekoyama returned, firm and undaunted.

Silence, save for the noise of the hospital and the soft rattle and slide of the chair’s wheels.

Tsumiki steered them into an elevator, hit the button and, as soon as the door closed, she’d side-stepped to where she could look at Pekoyama, wringing her hands.

“I… I thought… maybe… Pekoyama-san was kind of like me…” Tsumiki fumbled and then she winced at _herself_ , slapping her hands over her face. “Of course, you don’t want to be compared to s-someone like me! I’m sorry!”

Pekoyama blinked, baffled.

“Is there something wrong with you?” she asked, uncomprehending, and Tsumiki looked even more confused than she felt. She looked at Pekoyama as though Pekoyama had just said something ridiculous or questioned something that should be incredibly obvious. “You are nervous, but your manner when looking at my injuries was respectable. You have worried about me. Your kindness is not unappreciated.”

Tsumiki’s mouth fell open slightly, worked… and then her eyes began to fill with tears.

The blood rushed to Pekoyama’s head as she began to panic, in the Pekoyama way—she went still as stone, as though the emotions had frozen her into place. Tsumiki whimpered and sniffled, rubbing at her face with both of her hands and babbling out something that Pekoyama couldn’t make out. Why was she crying to begin with?! Had Pekoyama scared her?!

Then Tsumiki burbled out something about that being one of the nicest things someone had said to her and Pekoyama thought—somehow, somewhere, that she understood.

…Still.

“Have your coworkers not said such things to you?” she asked.

Tsumiki rubbed at her eyes some more, her face, and the elevator dinged open. She hastened to push Pekoyama’s wheelchair into the hall, lowering her voice to a nervous whisper, “Yes, well, I mean no, but… I’m n-not working hard enough yet, and I’m only a student…”

Pekoyama didn’t know about that, but she only knew Tsumiki a short time. They lapsed into an awkward quiet, while Pekoyama thought about what Tsumiki had said. She thought Pekoyama was like her. The two of them somehow resembled one another.

“I thought we were similar as well,” she finally said when they reached the entrance and a car had pulled up in front of it.

Tsumiki nearly collapsed, saved only by the blond woman who let herself out of the car, huffing at Pekoyama and her new sling. “Honestly, are you ready to go? I have work, you know,” Saionji Hiyoko announced as she stomped her way over and opened the door. “Just because I’m your neighbour and your childhood friend doesn’t mean I have the free time to be doing this all the time, jeez… get injured again and you’re on your own.”

“Thank you, Saionji.”

Pekoyama stopped at the door, looking back to see that Tsumiki was flushed, that she was gripping the handles of the wheelchair too hard. She was nervously watching Pekoyama and jolted as their gazes met. “And thank you as well, Tsumiki.”

Nodding her head, she slid into the car. As the door shut, Tsumiki burst out a little: “B-be well, Pekoyama-san!”

 

* * *

 

 

Thankfully, no further incidents occurred. However… that also meant that she had no reason to return to the hospital. As Pekoyama sat in her bed, a paper spread open in her lap, she frowned at the words she had passed over several times now, and not comprehending them though she had meant to read them. For whatever reason, she could not take her mind off of Tsumiki Mikan. Her reactions to being told what, in Pekoyama’s opinion, were simple truths. Her nervous behaviour was also something that would not part from her mind’s eye.

The way she had reacted to that doctor, the way that doctor had looked at her.

Pekoyama frowned darkly.

Drumming her fingers impatiently against the paper, she turned another page, her gaze stalling on the small section for job advertisements.

Neither she nor Tsumiki were satisfied with their lot in life, as it were, Pekoyama thought. She had never really put much time into pondering over it, not until she’d heard Tsumiki say words that she herself had never dared to voice.

_Why not change it now?_

 

* * *

 

“I didn’t think you’d really want to apply,” Saionji said doubtfully as she drove, weaving in and out in a way that Pekoyama would think of as dangerous if… no, actually. No _ifs_ whatsoever. It was dangerous through and through. If it wouldn’t mix up Saionji in it as well, she’d almost think that her childhood friend was trying to kill her.

Gripping rigidly onto the door handle and pondering how she was never motion sick before this moment, she nodded.

“I feel as though it’s time for a change.”

“Heeeh. Here I thought Pekoyama-onee would be stuck in that dusty old dojo, acting in the same old-fashioned way forever and ever and ever,” Saionji drawled, nearly flattening a pedestrian but managing to swerve to avoid them. Pekoyama thought she saw a wicked grin on the young woman’s face and tried not to think about it too much.

“Yes,” Pekoyama replied stiffly (not much of an answer for anything, more of an acknowledgement), wondering if she should have just walked after all. Or rode a bicycle… anything but this. She was going to have to get used to public transportation because driving with Saionji was too harrowing and shortened her lifespan by great chunks.

Eventually, thank goodness, Saionji pulled up in front of a small office building, her expression bored.

“Don’t tell him it was me, okay? I don’t need him thinking I’m trying to do him any favours.” Saionji sneered toward the building as Pekoyama let herself out of the vehicle and dipped a small, abrupt bow. “And you really don’t need me to pick you up after? Noooot that I’m complaining! I have better things to do.”

She studied her nails while Pekoyama nodded. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

“Hmf, suit yourself. You’ve got my number.” Saionji flapped her hand as Pekoyama shut the door, and she watched Saionji peel away from the sidewalk, wincing and hoping she’d get home safe. Again. Also that she wouldn’t end up hurting someone else in the process.

Standing on the sidewalk, Pekoyama looked up and down the road. This wasn’t all that far from the hospital where she went and she wondered how Tsumiki was doing. Bowing slightly in the direction of the hospital, she turned and let herself into the office building. It was a small affair, and if she wasn’t mistaken… checking the information she had written for herself on her notepad (her cell phone and doing anything besides calling people with it continued to escape her), she nodded to herself and headed to the second floor.

She opened up a door with a frosted window (‘KUZURYUU SECURITY’) and carefully stepped in.

A man at the desk there glanced up at her, opened his mouth—and then came the shouting.

“—get used to me, I ain’t going anywhere!” a man’s voice, agitated, muffled. The man at the desk sighed and put his forehead down very slowly into his palm. He had dark hair and a manner that didn’t much suit a professional, but that wasn’t Pekoyama’s concern.

Rather, she was focused on the female voice that came next.

“ _Haaah_? You really think I’m going to acknowledge you? Some weirdo that just showed up out of nowhere, pretending to be someone important?”

She looked at the man at the desk but he looked away from her, shaking his head in annoyance. “Have a seat,” he muttered. Pekoyama glanced at the closed door behind him and sat herself stiffly in one of the chairs in what was the waiting room. The man pressed a button on the phone on his desk and the shouting in the room quieted for a moment.

“What?” the voice came from the phone.

“Your interview’s here,” drawled the secretary.

“—gh. Okay. Give me a minute, Matsuda.”

With that, the person on the other end of the phone hung up and Matsuda looked briefly to Pekoyama before fixing his attention on the wall with a bored huff. Uncertain, she just waited.

“—why do I need your acknowledgement anyway?! You ain’t his wife!”

“Ha, like you are?”

“Both of you, _get out_!”

All at once the door opened and two colourful figures were ejected from the room—one more colourful than the other, with his garish pink hair and what looked to be a hideous shirt that would be better suited on display in an abstract art museum. The other was a younger girl with longer blond hair, who turned around with an imploring expression, silenced only by a sharp “Natsumi”. The one who had just kicked them into the waiting room folded his arms and glared.

“I don’t have time to sit around while you two argue,” he growled. “Go cool off and come back later. Oi, you’re Pekoyama, right? Come in.”

The girl’s cheeks flushed an angry scarlet and she wheeled on pink-hair—who was already beating a hasty retreat toward the door. “Hey! Get back here, I’m not done with you!”

“ _I’m_ done with _you_!” shouted the man as he scarpered.

Waiting until she’d dashed after him in pursuit, Pekoyama stood and followed Kuzuryuu Fuyuhiko into his office.

 

* * *

 

 

Standing dazed outside of the office, in one of Pekoyama’s hands she held a letter and a handbook—for her new job. She had nearly lowered into seiza in front of Kuzuryuu from the force of her gratitude, but he’d spluttered and told her that her pledging to work for him with her utmost loyalty and faithfulness was _more than enough_. She had tried calling him _bocchan_ , young master of his company that he was, and he looked like he was two seconds from defenestrating himself, so she gave that up as well.

He had been looking for someone just like her, someone capable, stoic, who wouldn’t get him or his business into trouble. They’d run into a few things in the last little while and he was sorely lacking people he could _trust_. What’s more, he had recognised her, eyes widening as he asked _“oi, weren’t you the one who won all of those kendo tournaments a few years ago?”_

They hadn’t spoke that long but it felt natural, Pekoyama thought. No more dojo, no more teaching, and yet…

It felt good. It felt right.

Such a simple thing. Such a simple change. She thought of Tsumiki and, resolved, she headed down the sidewalk, toward the pale white building in the distance.

It was strange, but she wanted to tell Tsumiki. Tell her that it was this simple. However frightening it might seem, however many changes would come in the future to shake up the normalcy, she wanted to tell her that it wasn’t so difficult after all.

 

* * *

 

Her mind was pure white.

Pekoyama’s posture was frozen in a position much better suited to a wild animal—she had taken a half-lunging step forward, her hands had balled into white-knuckled fists at her sides, and the only thing that had stopped her was Tsumiki’s terrified glance and pleading shake of her head.

Coming up to the hospital, she thought she had heard something. Freezing and cocking her head, she _did_ hear something. She had followed it around the back, in the space between two buildings and found there the doctor who had tended to her arm and her leg and Tsumiki, struggling and sniffling as she was pushed up against the wall. Now Pekoyama was still roughly trying to figure out the amount of time it would take her to get from here to there, and whether or not she was strong enough to rip the pipe off of the wall nearby.

For as much as she loathed them, she thrust a hand in her pocket, pulled out something, and the doctor froze as a soft click and sound of a photo being taken rung through the alley.

“Wha—”

He met Pekoyama Peko’s gaze, full of murderous intent, holding up her cell phone. He went white as all of what he’d done rushed back to him.

She jerked her head and stepped aside. Her voice was cold, sharp: “ _Leave_.”

“You can’t—”

“I said _leave_!” Pekoyama slammed her hand to the side hard enough to make one of the alley walls shuddered. The doctor cringed away from her bleeding hand and the way she hadn’t flinched at all, staring coldly at him as he hurried down the alley and back toward the hallway. Tsumiki, sniffling and sobbing, sunk down into a crouch, and Pekoyama quickly covered the distance between them. “Did he do anything to you, Tsumiki?”

She shook her head, her hands covering up her face—hands streaked with dust and dirt from where she had been gripping at the wall behind her. Or…

“Do not lie. I’ll find a way to strip him of everything he owns and make certain he is ruined for the rest of his life,” Pekoyama said softly, frighteningly soft. She meant it. She had not realised she was capable of such white-hot rage.

“Be-be-beca-cause P-P-P-Pekoyama-san c-came, it’s o-okay,” Tsumiki hiccupped, shaking her head several times, and continuously shaking it still. Pekoyama exhaled very slowly and lowered to kneel in front of her, her hand dripping blood onto the alley ground. Tsumiki raised a face flushed dark with tears, and her eyes went wide as she saw her hand. “P-Pekoyama-san!”

It was so much like the way she’d wailed Pekoyama’s name when Pekoyama had come to the hospital the second time that she couldn’t help a wry smile.

“It is fine,” she dismissed. It was beginning to throb, but she moved her uninjured hand, gently sweeping Tsumiki’s hair back from her face. “Are you certain he did nothing to you?”

Tsumiki shook her head hard. “He’s…” she bit down on her lower lip, eyes swimming with indecision. “He’s been t-trying to, for a while, but… it wasn’t until today…”

Pekoyama slumped further. Thank goodness. She didn’t want to think about what would have happened had she been too late. She continued to touch Tsumiki’s hair, surprisingly fluffy, sweeping it until she’d finally stopped crying. But even when it seemed she was done crying, tears would still dribble from her eyes.

They’d fallen quiet, Tsumiki curling into her when Pekoyama sat slowly alongside her. Eventually…

“Eh… that’s right, though… w-why are you here, Pekoyama-san? Not that… not that someone like me should ask you that, especially when y-you already saved me…!” she stuttered, tripping over her words, and Pekoyama grunted.

“I wished to speak with you.” Pekoyama pursed her lips, furrowing her eyebrows. “I had no other ways of contacting you besides knowing you worked here.”

Tsumiki stared at her, pop-eyed.

“I have decided,” Pekoyama continued after a moment, reaching into her pocket and pulling out her job contract to show her, “that I will change. I am tired of living doing just what I believe I must do. Hearing that you, too, felt like I did, I wished to share this with you.”

Her face distorted in a grimace as her own words rung in her ears.

“I suppose it is forward of me—”

“N-no!” Tsumiki gasped out. Both of her hands, dirty as they were, clasped Pekoyama’s one between them, gripping tight at them. Her eyes looked watery again and Pekoyama stiffened, wondering what one was supposed to do at times like this. “I’m… I’m really happy that Pekoyama-san… that Pekoyama-san got something good from meeting me… I…”

She sniffled.

Pekoyama breathed in slowly.

“Tsumiki. I have something else I wished to say to you.”

“Hueh?” Tsumiki sounded confused, tilting her head.

“I believe that you—that if you are unsatisfied with where you are now, you can change it.” Pekoyama narrowed her eyes and leaned closer to her, trapping and pinning Tsumiki in place with the force of her stare. “Rather, I believe you should find somewhere better. You can do it. I did not really believe I could, yet I was able to. There is no reason why you shouldn’t be able to, either. You are stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

Tsumiki’s lower lip wobbled, her eyes filling with tears—this time, Pekoyama didn’t tense that much as the girl wailed and threw herself into Pekoyama’s chest, gripping her around the waist.

She just stroked her hair and gazed up at the sky from the dingy alleyway.


	5. plenary: the case of souda kazuichi pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Souda always thought that finding a special person would be the hard part. He never thought that he’d find the person, experience a more-or-less shared love… just to realise the younger sister wanted to stick pins through him, pin him to a display and shove him into a museum never to see the light of day again.

Souda always thought that _finding_ a special person would be the hard part. He never thought that he’d find the person, experience a more-or-less shared love… just to realise the younger sister wanted to stick pins through him, pin him to a display and shove him into a museum never to see the light of day again.

“You’re exaggerating,” Kuzuryuu said, sitting at his desk.

He was all neat-and-proper, with his attention focused on his latest contract. He had a smudge of ink on one cheek where he had a habit of rubbing his pen (Souda hadn’t bothered to clue him in since it was cute) and Souda couldn’t help but compare him to the Kuzuryuu he met what felt like so long ago, in Hibana, lit by low lights, dancing clumsily with him in a crowd of strangers. Sneaking off to the bathroom.

It felt like a dream.

He might have had similar ones ever since then. It was a secret.

“I ain’t exaggerating. Kuzuryuu— _Natsumi_ wants me dead,” Souda complained. It was awfully difficult to deal with siblings when they had the same surname, and he sure as hell wasn’t calling Kuzuryuu by his first name. “Pretty sure she woulda murdered me already if she didn’t know you liked me.”

“Do I? Pretty sure I’m starting to hate the idiot distracting me from work,” Kuzuryuu muttered, but he didn’t hide a smirk very well.

Souda glared and glared until he looked up, saw Souda’s watery eyes, and relented with a snort.

“Kidding. Fuck, Souda, what are you expecting me to do? I’ve already talked to her.” Kuzuryuu put his pen aside and leaned his forearms on his desk. “I can’t do anything else.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Have _you_ talked to Natsumi?”

Souda muttered something and looked away.

“Aa?”

“…I said she’s too scary,” Souda mumbled, folding his arms over his chest petulantly.

Kuzuryuu started laughing at him and Souda considered dumping him—as if he could. Even a consideration made him feel sad. Kuzuryuu was, by far, the best thing that had come into his life in the last… forever. Yeah. Forever about summed it up.

“You’re fine with me, but my _sister_ scares you?” Kuzuryuu scoffed.

Souda just gave him a look, a look that he hoped conveyed the thought of _I didn’t have sex with your sister_. After sex someone stopped being scary—that was pretty much the rule. Kuzuryuu averted his gaze, snorting.

“Try talking to her,” he told Souda firmly. “It’s not like she doesn’t give me a hard time, either. She won’t kill you or hurt you beyond calling you names.” With that, he flapped his hand, shooing Souda away. He reluctantly dragged himself to his feet and shuffled to the office door. He peeked back… but Kuzuryuu was engrossed already in his work and, swallowing a sigh of disappointment, he saw himself out. Matsuda gave him the cursory glance of farewell as he passed by and Souda waved half-heartedly, making his way down the stairs to the main floor.

Talk to his sister, huh… what a pain.

He couldn’t think of anything that he wanted to do _less_ than talk to Kuzuryuu Natsumi. She hated his guts, that was obvious. She’d _made_ it obvious, from the first time she saw him. After he and Kuzuryuu had met up at Souda’s garage, awkward but hopeful, they’d got to talking. Kuzuryuu invited him over to eat lunch with him on his next day off and, lo and behold, there was Natsumi. Kuzuryuu hadn’t intended for them to meet like that, of course, but she’d taken one look at Souda and immediately expressed her disapproval.

He could usually handle disapproval—hell, he got that most days of the week.

However, the angry way she looked at him tended to make him want to hide behind things.

Like Kuzuryuu. Or Hinata and Komaeda. They could make a good tag-team meat shield.

Souda _sighed_ and stepped outside, squinting balefully up at the sky. It was chilly today, making him regret forgetting his scarf or heavier coat. Now what was he supposed to do? On his days off he tended to come over and bother Kuzuryuu at work, even when he knew he was busy. He often got shooed out, because Kuzuryuu couldn’t focus while he was there, and the guy was super serious about work.

It made Souda wonder what had prompted him to go to the club to begin with. He hadn’t yet managed to wrestle the story out of Kuzuryuu.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he sighed once again and got to walking.

 

* * *

 

When the door had shut behind Souda, Kuzuryuu heaved a sigh of his own.

He lifted his gaze to the door—if he’d looked up when Souda looked back (as he always did), Souda would have perked up and returned right back to his seat, taking attention as invitation. But there wasn’t anything else Kuzuryuu could say to make him feel better, really. The source of Souda’s stress was Natsumi.

Natsumi, huh…

Kuzuryuu adored his sister, but he also adored Souda, that enormous idiot. He hadn’t known what to expect of him after their first encounter, made worse by how Souda didn’t call him back for days and days. He had almost gotten to the point where he gave up when he met up with him, coincidental and abrupt. It was easy to figure out from there that Souda didn’t hate him or regret what they did—he was just kind of a coward. Kuzuryuu could admit to a little of that cowardice himself.

But, after they’d gradually talked more and more at the garage and then later in Kuzuryuu’s office, cafes, parks, it was easy to figure out the guy wasn’t much different than the one Kuzuryuu ran into. He was jittery, nervous, quick to anger but just as quick to grin. He made the boring days Kuzuryuu had begun to grow tired of bright again.

 _Like fuck I’m saying that to him,_ he thought, beginning to blush and feeling dumb for doing so.

Back to the main issue—what was he going to do about him and Natsumi?

 _Not much I can do about it,_ he thought. However… if Natsumi drove Souda away and if Souda _let_ her drive him off, Kuzuryuu was going to be pissed off all to hell.

He smirked to himself.

_Not like I’d let him run off that easy._

Kuzuryuu’d finally found something—some _one_ —and he wasn’t going to let him go.

The office door opened and Kuzuryuu glanced up, to see Natsumi’s smile as she let herself in. He recalled Souda’s words, straightened, and leaned back in his chair to greet her with a heavier “Natsumi” than usual.

Her smile faded at once, her eyes narrowing. “Was that stupid mechanic talking about me again?” she huffed, folding her arms over her chest.

“Oi, I’m dating that stupid mechanic,” Kuzuryuu said flatly and saw her expression change, her cheeks swelling in upset. “You gotta talk to him. What am I supposed to do if you two never get along with each other?”

“Dump him?”

Kuzuryuu’s glare steepened.

Natsumi faltered, huffed, and scuffed her heel against the floor. “I was just _kidding_ ,” she sulked. “I just don’t get it… all of a sudden, him? You never even told me how you met a guy like that.”

Kuzuryuu’s gaze wandered purposefully away. She didn’t notice, thank goodness. He didn’t want to go into the _why_ s. How was he supposed to put into words what it felt like, anyway? Night after night, sitting here in his office, filling out the same papers, going through the routine he’d been groomed for ever since he was a kid; ever since it was assumed he’d take over after his father retired.

There was no way he could explain how _empty_ it all felt, doing work by himself, thinking about his future. Thinking about doing this _forever_. There was no comfort in the routine. He’d wanted to shake it up and, in a moment of abandon, he’d looked up clubs online. He’d gone to AiiRO, winced at once at the crowd and someone had noticed his discomfort, advising him check out the club where he’d run into Souda. Coincidental. Kuzuryuu didn’t believe in _fate_.

Coincidence that all stemmed from a decision he wasn’t even sure would bear fruit. Some half-baked decision made when he was desperately lonely and so, so tired of _routine_.

“And why a guy?!”

He came back to the present for that question, Natsumi’s voice loud and indignant. “It just kinda worked out that way,” Kuzuryuu muttered, fighting his embarrassment as he leaned his cheek against the palm of his hand.

Natsumi sighed loudly. “Fine, whatever. I guess I’ll try listening to that idiot. _If_ he tries talking to me.”

Aha, _there_ was his little sister and he smiled at her gratefully. “Thanks, Natsumi.” She blushed and muttered something under her breath but she looked happy herself.

 

* * *

 

“You know what I’m going to say.”

Souda did. He had come to Hinata in the hopes Hinata would comfort him—which he had, but he also laid things down, similar things to what Kuzuryuu said the day before. Souda turned his head, planting his cheek on the table in the university cafeteria and staring balefully toward one of the walls. “Tch. Yeah. I know.”

Souda folded his arms and buried his face in those instead, mumbling: “Why can’t it be easy like it is with you and Komaeda? You damn lovey-dovey couple.”

“L-lovey-dovey…” Hinata spluttered but, damn him, he sounded a little happy. “Anyway, it’s not all just easy with us, you know.” Souda peered up at him skeptically. “Really. We still argue now and again.”

Souda snorted. “Me’n K—uh, my boyfriend argue whenever we’re in the same room, that ain’t nothin’. You _damn lovey-dovey couple_ ,” he said, laying extra emphasis this time on the words. Hinata coughed and struggled to hide a smile. Hid it _poorly_ and Souda glared some more, envious of a relationship without the complications he faced, surely the worst complications in the universe, before dropping his face back down into his arms.

Hinata gave his shoulder a consoling pat and then, with some surprise, he said, “Oh, Kuzuryuu.”

Souda jolted up so fast he almost fell over, half-turning in a wild rush. How would Kuzuryuu have found him here? Was he worried about him? Was—

 _It was the wrong Kuzuryuu_.

Natsumi stalked her way toward them, scowling at Souda, who shrank down in his chair and wished that he could sink into the seat, into the ground, deep deep in the earth where he’d be safe. Eventually he just turned back around and dropped his chin down on top of his forearms, staring straight ahead of him and wishing he hadn’t turned around at all. Hinata was wearing the expression of someone who had just realised they _messed up_.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Natsumi demanded, and then rounded on Hinata when Souda didn’t answer fast enough (at all). “Don’t tell me he goes to school here!”

“He just came to visit me.” Hinata coughed, as though trying to dispel tension. “Kuzuryuu, this is my friend Souda. Souda, Kuzuryuu is my underclassman.”

Natsumi glared at Souda some more and Souda, in petty retaliation, curled his fingers around the brim of his hat and dragged it down over his eyes so he couldn’t see her anymore. Ugh. He wasn’t ready for this! He didn’t want to do this. All he wanted was Kuzuryuu, to be very frank, and not the younger girl one, either! He wanted the older brother, who smirked but whose smile lit up his face and who laughed when Souda glared at him.

“What a pathetic face,” Natsumi sighed. “Are you really just going to sit there and not say anything?”

Souda grit his teeth and wished he could cover his ears without seeming like even more of a child.

 _Try talking to her_ , Kuzuryuu’s voice rung around in his head. His shoulders slumped. He was too cowardly for this, damn it! Kuzuryuu better appreciate that Souda loved him. So, dragging his hat back up, he reluctantly sat up and hunched his shoulders, looking grouchily up at the younger Kuzuryuu sibling.

“Oi, can you quit it?”

He was sure the temperature of the air around them dropped ten degrees. Natsumi made an unladylike _aa?_ that suited some kind of yankee or yakuza (or her older brother) far better than it did a girl who _might_ have been cute otherwise. Might.

“You know what I’m talkin’ about,” Souda continued, trying not to make his voice as sullen as he felt. “I get it, you don’t like me, but it ain’t like I’m goin’ anywhere anytime soon.”

“Oh yeah?” Natsumi said, her voice layered with disbelief.

Souda’s eyebrows shot up, incredulous. “ _Yeah_. Why the hell would I be goin’ somewhere? D-don’t think I was gonna get scared off that easily,” he tried for defiance, trying to sound braver than he felt. For Kuzuryuu, for Kuzuryuu, he told himself.

Natsumi crashed down into the seat next to Hinata (wisely keeping his mouth shut and looking out the window like he didn’t know them), and across from Souda proper. He was afraid she was going to kick his legs but she didn’t. Not yet, at least. “I’ve seen your type before,” she began, disparaging. “You’d run in a second if it got to be too much for you. I’m not going to let you hurt _my_ brother, you know?”

The possessive itched at him.

“He’s not _yours_ ,” Souda bit out before he could think otherwise. He hadn’t meant to pick a fight but, damn it all…!

Natsumi narrowed her eyes. “Then who’s is he? Yours? I don’t think so.”

“Of course not! The hell! Kuzuryuu ain’t like a wrench or screwdriver or somethin’!” Exasperated, Souda threw his hands up in the air, bringing them down to cradle either side of his head like he needed to press at his head to keep the _sense_ inside. “Kuzuryuu’s _his_. He doesn’t belong to anyone ‘cept himself. He ain’t mine, an’ he ain’t yours. Yeah, sure, if he could be mine, I’d want that, but he’s not and he’s never _gonna_ be. I’m glad enough that he likes me enough to keep me around! I can’t go thinking I’m gonna go abscond with him to some desert island or somethin’, ‘cause there’s no way that workaholic would leave!”

Natsumi had quieted, scrutinising him with eyes very much like her brother’s.

“An’ I’m sure as hell not gonna hurt him,” Souda continued, now that he was on a roll, words falling past his lips in a rush, up to and including words he hadn’t even said to _Kuzuryuu_ yet. “I love him, you really think I wanna do that?! I want to make him happy, damn it!”

Silence.

Souda noticed too late that his voice had been steadily getting louder and, in horror, he looked around the cafeteria. People were glancing their way, whispering to each other. Hinata cleared his throat quietly, hiding a smile, and Souda curled up and dug his hands into his hat, dragging it back over his eyes and groaning his despair and humiliation quietly.

“…I don’t want to see him hurt,” after a few minutes, the quiet words came. Souda lifted up his hat slightly, hesitantly looking across at Natsumi, who was looking away from him, looking at something he couldn’t hope to see. “And I don’t want to lose him. When he started working…” She stopped, making a face. “I hardly saw him anymore. I couldn’t go visit him as much as I wanted. I was just a kid. I was in the way, and he had _work_ to do, he didn’t have time for me anymore—that’s what my parents told me.”

Souda stayed quiet, lifting up his hat to look at her more. She looked less like a terror who wanted to pin him to a corkboard and more like, well… Kuzuryuu’s sister.

Who was worried about having her brother taken away, not for the first time. She’d already lost time with him to begin with, her hours with him more limited even though they were family and should have had all of the chances they could ever want. She could probably even be jealous of him, an interloper muscling in on what little bit she had with her brother.

He wasn’t that close to his family, so it was hard to fully relate, but he thought he could understand. If he thought about someone taking Kuzuryuu away from him, what moments they had right now interrupted and cut down to halves, he thought he might go right back to how he felt just working on the same old thing day after day. It was miserable. It was lonely. He could block out the feelings only for so long, until the night came and he laid awake staring at the ceiling wondering what he was _missing_ out of life that everyone else seemed to have already.

Souda rubbed his hand against his head, grimacing down at the table as he struggled for words.

Natsumi huffed. “You don’t have to say anything, you know—it’s not like I’m expecting anything of you.”

Ouch.

“ _But_ ,” she said, with a sharp look in her eyes, “I guess I can give you a _chance_. Since you _love_ my brother and all.”

Souda stiffened at the look, which changed into something conniving. He leaned forward, bracing his arm on the table and hissed, “Oi, don’t you dare tell him that before I do.”

Natsumi just smirked.


	6. sideline: the case of koizumi mahiru

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Koizumi couldn’t remember what she had pictured her life as. Maybe she hoped she would be famous? Maybe she wished that she was a photographer for famous people, for stars, for anyone besides an advertising company that often dealt with businesses that just closed down eventually anyway.

“…Ah.”

Koizumi Mahiru lowered her camera as the bird she’d lined up perfectly in her viewfinder took to the sky. Sighing, she slumped back against the park bench and looked down at her half-finished lunch. While photography for her was more of a hobby than anything else, she still felt disappointed when she didn’t get the shot she wanted in time.

_I suppose I shouldn’t be so much of a perfectionist,_ she thought and tucked her camera away into her bag, standing from the bench and disposing of her unfinished lunch. Even though she had at least fifteen minutes before she had to be back at the advertising company, she started to walk back, letting her mind wander, wondering what she was doing with herself.

This wasn’t how she had pictured her life—admittedly, she couldn’t remember _what_ she had pictured her life as.

Maybe she hoped she would be famous? Maybe she wished that she was a photographer for famous people, for stars, for anyone besides an advertising company that often dealt with businesses that just closed down eventually anyway.

_That’s too pessimistic,_ she quickly rebuked herself.

Not _all_ of them went out of business. Those—okay, so she had worked with quite a few that had, but she had heard just as many success stories from her coworkers.

Brushing her red hair from her face, she frowned and crossed the street to the building, nodding absently at the security at the front desk as she went in. An elevator ride later and she stepped onto the floor where she worked. A co-worker, Sato, glanced up briefly from her computer to offer a faint smile, lifting up a folder that had been perched on the corner of her desk.

“A new business,” she said, “they’re hoping to get in touch with someone today.”

“Thanks, Sato-chan,” Koizumi replied with a brief smile and took the folder back to her desk.

Flipping it open, Koizumi flicked through it with a small frown. A restaurant? It didn’t say clearly, but they indicated they would be serving food. There’d also be music… all of this was very vague, actually, and Koizumi could almost feel a headache threatening. She didn’t like having too little information to go on.

She snapped the folder shut and stood.

“I’m going to check it out,” she called to Sato and swept onto the elevator once again.

 

* * *

 

“Here…?”

It was quite a small building—and unremarkable. She frowned at the outside, checking the address in the folder again. No, this was certainly it. At least they were looking to advertise _before_ they opened, at the very least. Some businesses didn’t advertise at all, and then they were surprised when they went under…

Approaching the door, Koizumi stopped.

A car was screeching up by the sidewalk nearby and she winced as it stopped with a violent shudder and a rattle, as if it had seen one too many a rough time and _something_ was very close to finally falling off or giving up in defeat. The passenger’s side door opened and out stepped a tall woman with bright red eyes, dressed in a pressed grey suit. The driver’s side opened too and Koizumi’s eyes widened minutely to see the blond woman with a long, thick ponytail who all-but leapt out of it, sighing loudly as she flipped her hair.

“I swear if Kuzuryuu-onii wasn’t paying me for this,” she was saying to her companion, “there’s _no way_ I’d take you over to this part of town. Honestly, there’s not even anything here—”

She paused. She had seen Koizumi, who stared back at her.

_W-what an overbearing presence_. Nevertheless, Koizumi ducked a bow, leaving the woman looking confused. The woman in the suit had glanced her way as well and Koizumi felt much as though she were under a magnifying glass.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, Saionji. You hate this part of town.” Someone else had climbed out of the back of the car, a short man in a pinstripe suit who looked somewhat ill. Koizumi wasn’t surprised, after seeing the way that car had basically careened up to the sidewalk. He frowned at both women, though, and then glanced over toward Koizumi. At least his look was less scrutinising or (in the blond woman’s case) intent. “…oi, are you here for this place too?”

He jerked his thumb at the building. She nodded stiffly.

“I’m Koizumi from Meirou Advertising,” she introduced herself, reaching in her pocket for her business card. The man approached and she relaxed minutely, falling into routine.

“Kuzuryuu, from Kuzuryuu Security,” he replied, swapping cards with her. Her eyebrows raised with surprise and she looked from it to him, as if trying to reconcile ‘CEO’ with the man before her, who couldn’t be much more than the 20s that she was currently in. He cleared his throat. “I took over from my old man.”

“I see.”

“I’m Pekoyama Peko,” the woman in the suit introduced herself, her tone calm and cool. “The y—” Kuzuryuu threw a sharp look back at her. “…Kuzuryuu thought this would be an ideal place for my first job to be. So we are meeting with the owner this afternoon.”

A huff from Koizumi’s other side and she startled, turning to realise that the blond woman had gotten awfully close. “ _I’m_ Saionji Hiyoko,” she said, drawing herself up with her fingers resting against her chest. She was a little taller than Koizumi, impressive if not intimidating. “I’m Pekoyama-onee’s unfortunate childhood friend… and I’m just around in case they need me today.”

“Oh.” Koizumi wasn’t quite sure what to do with such a personality but, always with a soft spot for fellow girls, she smiled gently at her. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Hiyoko-chan.”

Saionji’s cheeks flared pink and she looked abruptly away, to Koizumi’s confusion.

Oh well.

“I don’t suppose you know any more about this business?” Koizumi asked, turning to Kuzuryuu who was heading closer to the door. He shrugged slightly. “I came here trying to find out some more about it, but I can’t tell anything about it. Honestly, it’ll be difficult to advertise like this…”

“I don’t mind if you want to come in with us. C’mon.”

Surprised by his quick manner, sharp decisions and especially for a man, Koizumi frowned at the tone but she followed him and Pekoyama inside as he opened up the door without hesitation. It was dim inside, windows covered, and she coughed and waved away some dust. Something brushed her elbow and she realised Saionji had come up close beside her, was looking around warily, frowning before pinching her nose shut with her fingers.

“What a dirty, dingy place,” she huffed.

The childish gesture made Koizumi smile.

“Back here,” a voice called abruptly through the gloom and a door opened. Something—some _one_ was silhouetted in it, a large and imposing presence that just as soon vanished into the room. Saionji went _eeeeh_ very quietly next to her, as if in disbelief, but Pekoyama led the way, posture tense like she was preparing for an attack.

However, the lit room was a comfortable office, with four ( _four?_ Koizumi thought) plush chairs arranged comfortably in front of a large mahogany desk. Behind that desk sat that figure with square glasses perched on their (his?) nose, frowning down at the papers on the desk, ruffling through them with his fingers before he flicked his hand, an imperious gesture for them to sit.

None of them did.

“Suzuki Yuto-san?” Koizumi tried after a moment.

The man looked up in annoyance. “Obviously. Sit down.”

_Now_ they did, and Koizumi frowned more at him, not noticing the way Saionji immediately commandeered the seat next to her with a glare at Pekoyama and Kuzuryuu.

“Oi, were you expecting _all_ of us?” Kuzuryuu asked skeptically, folding one leg over the other.

“Yes.” Suzuki didn’t elaborate and Koizumi cleared her throat softly, fighting a small twinge of annoyance. He finished writing something and calmly put his pen aside, shuffling the sheaves of paper back into a neat pile and setting them at the back of his desk. “I apologise for the lacking information I was able to give you. My… _co-owners_ …” He paused, as if the very words were a bane upon the earth that was otherwise a lovely, enjoyable thing. “…have been very, very difficult. We’ve been unable to decide on various things, and thus…”

He gestured impatiently to the door they had all come through.

“It’ll be difficult to advertise when you don’t know what you’ll be,” Koizumi said after a moment.

“Security’ll be hard on our end too.” Kuzuryuu sighed. “There’s a big difference in security between a club, a bar, or a restaurant… We could install machines either way, but actual security present is a different thing completely.”

Suzuki kneaded between his eyebrows, grumbling. “Trust me,” he muttered, “I am well aware.”

A silence fell.

Suzuki looked around at them, his hands folded and his expression pensive. “I already know what will work well in this area of the city,” he said, “but that’s not what my co-owners want. Our chef wants a chance to experiment and change the menu as he pleases, and our entertainment would like to play all kinds of music, no matter the night or audience. We may eventually hire different entertainment, as well. Hence a need for security.”

“It sounds a little like a fusion restaurant,” Koizumi piped up hesitantly. Suzuki nodded for her to continue. “But with live entertainment? Mmm… it’ll be difficult to advertise using food if the menu is never set, but you might want to advertise based on the experience your restaurant could give… Ah, or choose one item that will always be on the menu. That’ll help more than you think.”

“We’re also still trying to decide on décor. My idiot co-owners wanted a maid café,” Suzuki said flatly.

Pekoyama lifted her eyebrows curiously at the same time Kuzuryuu coughed into his fist to disguise a laugh.

“Your co-owners sound like idiots,” Saionji drawled, quieting in response to Koizumi’s soft, reproving _Hiyoko-chan_. She glanced over at Koizumi and, for some reason, looked pleased with herself even as she glanced away toward the wall.

“Idiots they are but they are my idiots. Unfortunately,” Suzuki dryly returned.

“So let’s brainstorm,” Kuzuryuu offered suddenly, shrugging one of his shoulders. He had relaxed considerably and he now watched Suzuki like he saw something new in him.

“Just what I hoped you’d offer when you came.” Suzuki smiled thinly and they all got down to business.

 

* * *

 

Feeling remarkably more cheered and oddly… well, excited, Koizumi exited the restaurant, happily shuffling the new notes and ideas that she and the others had come up with. She’d bring this back, discuss it with the sales side of the agency, and then they could…

She paused, wondering. This morning she had just been thinking it was all boring. Well, yes. She didn’t usually do _this_. Certainly she might scout out locations, but she had never been pulled into an impromptu meeting between a restaurant’s owner, the future security and also one other person (Saionji). Their meeting had been full of bickering but ideas, and… it was fun, frankly. It was refreshing. Checking her phone, she balked at the time.

“Oh, no, I need to get back,” she muttered. How had time flown so fast? It always dragged these days.

“Koizumi-onee,” called a voice at her back. She turned to see Saionji, loitering by her car, playing with her keys with an odd expression on her face, oddly pinched. “Want me to give you a ride? You have to go back to your office, right?”

Touched by the kindness, Koizumi nodded. “I don’t mind getting a taxi—”

“It’s fine,” Saionji declared loudly. “Pekoyama-onee and Kuzuryuu-onii are checking out the building for their security junk anyway. So… Come on?”

A _pout_. That’s what she was doing. Koizumi smiled, bemused and struck by how cute it was to see a woman about her age pouting like that, and walked over to her car. “Okay. Thank you, Hiyoko-chan. Honestly, it would be a big help.”

Saionji grunted and slid into the driver’s seat as Koizumi settled into the passenger’s side. Oddly, there was no peeling away or the rough merging with traffic she’d expected—like when Saionji had first pulled in. Rather, she pulled out into traffic _normally_ , and Koizumi relaxed back into her seat. This was a much smoother ride than expected, and she forced herself to reconsider thinking of Saionji as one of those crazy drivers.

“Do you know where Meirou Advertising is?” Koizumi asked curiously as they drove.

“I looked it up on my phone,” Saionji replied, sneaking a look over at her. “Have you worked there a very long time, Koizumi-onee? You don’t seem very old.”

Koizumi laughed. “No, not at all. It’s only been a few years.” Her smile dimmed a little. She had gone into work shortly out of school and, one way or another, had ended up working in advertising. She had never thought she’d be doing _that_. Perhaps she had bigger aspirations at one point, but she could remember them no longer. “What about you, Hiyoko-chan? I’m still not sure where you work.”

“I’m self-employed,” Saionji declared with a little smirk. Koizumi tilted her head, waiting for her to elaborate, but she didn’t. “Well, if you really want to know, I help make and model clothes.”

“A model…?” Koizumi stared.

Certainly, Saionji was a beautiful woman. Made up, Koizumi could picture her in the latest fashions but, after a few moments of her trying to imagine, Saionji snorted.

“It’s not a big deal, Koizumi-onee,” she said. “I haven’t hit it big or anything—I mostly model for small boutiques, things like that. Ugh, when I was younger, they wanted to wear all of these things, I bet they were trying to appeal to lolicons…”

Saionji went on, chatting about this or that, the modeling job she had done at a particular place as well as her own personal brand of clothing. _It’s not like it’s made it big or anything,_ she said dismissively. However, Koizumi was interested. The clothing Saionji wore suited her well—billowy sleeves, a top reminiscent of a kimono, trim pants that seemed flowier with the loose fabric at the sides…

Koizumi shook her head hard.

_I shouldn’t stare so much,_ she told herself, embarrassed now that she realised she’d all-but been checking out her company. Saionji was very magnetic, certainly, but…

“This is it, right?” As the car pulled in smoothly, Koizumi glanced out the window.

“Mmhm. Thank you, Hiyoko-chan,” Koizumi replied, unbuckling herself from her seat. “Maybe we’ll see each other again—”

A hand caught her by her sleeve as she went to step out and Koizumi paused. Looking back, she saw Saionji’s face twisted into a difficult expression again, a hard slant to her mouth and a deep furrow of her brow. She opened her mouth, paused with hesitance Koizumi thought uncharacteristic of her (even though they only knew each other so long) before barrelling on: “Can you give me your phone number, Koizumi-onee? I want to hang out sometime.”

Koizumi blinked at her, more so when she bowed her head, glancing up coyly through her eyelashes.

“Is that okay…?”

Koizumi thought a little of her sanity was chipped away, but nevertheless she nodded hesitantly, fishing out her phone. She thought Saionji muttered a little “Koizumi-onee’s phone number get” under her breath.

But she was probably imagining it.

 

* * *

 

 

Saionji loved to text.

Even though Koizumi kept an early schedule, somehow Saionji was the first one to text her in the morning. In text littered with emojis, she’d tell her about her morning, about what work she was doing, whether or not Pekoyama had done something stupid or brought around her ‘girlfriend’ (not that Pekoyama called her that, it seemed) or about that guy Hinata who had started hanging around Kuzuryuu’s office. Apparently he knew that boring Matsuda guy who she butted heads with whenever she went there.

It was charming. It was overwhelming. Koizumi went to work smiling more than she had in ages. Even Sato made note of it, bemused but not displeased to see Koizumi in good spirits, especially as Suzuki contacted her again telling her that his co-owners would go with the theme they had brainstormed after all, and thanking her in a firm voice for her assistance. This idea would come together with her help.

She threw herself headfirst into the project.

There was nothing at this moment that was half as fun as thinking back to their meeting and thinking of how to use their ideas. How could she best display them? How could she make certain that she would help them succeed?

…truly, there was nothing quite as fun as glancing to her phone and seeing Saionji’s excited responses to the photos she’d send her of what she was working on.

 

* * *

 

However, she should have realised something would happen at some point.

“Koizumi-san, you haven’t been working on your other work very much,” her supervisor said to her with a frown. “I’m afraid I might have to remove you from your new client and switch it to someone else if this persists.”

Her stomach dropped out, falling somewhere deep and dark.

Obligations. Duty. Employment. Money. Home. The group in the restaurant. Saionji. Their laughs. Their smiles. She had wanted to take pictures of them, the first time she had wanted to take pictures of actual people for a long time, in this tired and tried world.

As adults, they had to bend to society.

As normal human beings, they too had places they needed to fit. They had to do things they didn’t want to, in order to get by.

“N-no, no,” Koizumi quickly said. “I’ll be fine. I’m sorry, I only have a few last touches on my other work, I’ll get them sent out to the clients today.”

 

* * *

 

 

Fun days changed to weary ones.

 

* * *

 

 

_You’ve been quiet lately, Koizumi-onee. Are you okay?  ( ´△_ _｀)_

Koizumi curled herself around her cellphone and fought off tears. She was exhausted enough. She didn’t have time or energy to waste on tears.

She didn’t…

 

* * *

 

When she woke to the smell of something cooking, Koizumi didn’t know what was going on. Her head was fuzzy, everything felt hot, and she struggled to get out of bed… hm? When had she gotten under blankets? Even more than that, when had she gotten into pajamas or plugged in her phone?

…What was that sound?

Wearily levering herself out of bed, Koizumi picked her way to the door of her bedroom, peeking hesitantly out. She saw a back, her apron on someone else, long blond hair gathered up in a high ponytail as the woman huffed over the food in the pan.

“Hiyoko-chan…?”

Sure enough, it was Saionji, who jumped before turning around to face her. She had been over several times since they met, for dinner, knew where Koizumi kept her spare key. It was surprising to see her here, wearing Koizumi’s apron (she didn’t even know Saionji could cook). Then Saionji’s face contorted, upset, and she dropped the spatula on the counter, flicking the oven off, before closing the distance between her and Koizumi in surprisingly long strides. She caught Koizumi up in her arms, in a tight grip, and buried her face in Koizumi’s shoulder.

At a loss, wondering what on earth was going on, Koizumi patted her head.

“I was worried!” Saionji said fiercely, angrily, into her shoulder. “You never texted me back! I kept sending texts to you but you never replied! I even called a bunch but you didn’t pick up! And then I came over because I was worried and you had a fever and weren’t waking up…!”

“Did I…?” Koizumi murmured faintly.

“You did! Koizumi-onee, why did you push yourself so hard?!”

Koizumi went quiet, unsure how to explain. She put her hand hesitantly on the back of Saionji’s neck, holding there, rapidly changing to a cling once she got her arm around her shoulders properly, feeling abruptly small and alone save for Saionji and thank goodness that she was here, however long they had known one another, she had _come_ when Koizumi needed it. “Because… because, I was having fun. More fun than I’ve had in a long time,” she admitted. “But then my boss told me I had to work on my other projects as well, or else I wouldn’t be able to do anything for anyone anymore… I’ve been working late a lot, just trying to keep up with everything.”

“Stupid!” Saionji muttered tearfully, beating her palm against Koizumi’s back once, twice.

“I’m sorry.”

“Not you! You… you didn’t do anything wrong.” Angrily pulling back, Saionji wiped her eyes. One of the things that Koizumi had learned in the time they had gotten to know each other… was that she was a surprising crybaby. She was petty, she was childish, but she was magnetic and she cared more than she wanted to let on. “What I’m saying is stupid is your _company_.”

Koizumi just laughed and trailed her fingers through Saionji’s ponytail. “It’s a regular company.”

“That’s what’s stupid about it,” Saionji muttered, glaring at the floor. “What’s wrong with doing something you think’s fun? Better that than be stuck doing things you don’t care about! I never do things I don’t want to do.”

“And that’s what I admire about you, Hiyoko-chan.” Koizumi still felt warm, slightly flushed, maybe that’s why her words poured out of her: “I can’t be the same, but I don’t want to stop knowing you or the others or doing what I can… to make sure what we all made comes together.”

Saionji gazed at her a long moment, with red-rimmed eyes and pursed lips, and she pulled Koizumi in close.

“I bet Suzuki-onii would hire you,” she muttered into Koizumi’s ear. “Then we wouldn’t have to worry about this happening anymore.”

Koizumi laughed and, in a disbelieving tone, “Hiyoko-chan, don’t be silly…”

Saionji was silent. Koizumi peered at her head, her hidden face.

“Hiyoko-chan?”


	7. 31337: the case of nanami chiaki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a world without Hope’s Peak Academy, in a world without anything like ‘Super High School Level’ talents, without scouts that would seek out those of exceptional skill… Nanami Chiaki whiled away her days at school doing the same thing she always did: burying herself face first in a game. But Nanami knows that, somewhere out there, there are people waiting for her.

In a world without Hope’s Peak Academy, in a world without anything like ‘Super High School Level’ talents, without scouts that would seek out those of exceptional skill… Nanami Chiaki whiled away her days at school doing the same things she always did: buried face first in a game.

It had been something that persisted from young age, when she’d gotten her first game system, up until now. Handhelds were a wonder. With them, she didn’t need to force herself to try and interact with those around her, didn’t need to struggle to find a common ground that would still be lacking. Se very comfortably buried herself in her games. She would get in trouble in classes when she was caught playing, her teachers would call in her parents while she sat sleepily by the window, but nothing anyone could say could get her to stop.

Oh, they tried.

Her parents would take her game systems, leaving her feeling empty, uncomfortable and exposed in the middle of a classroom, like a shield to protect her from others had been taken away from her. Why couldn’t she go to a school where all she had to do was play video games? There were no such schools, of course, but nothing could stop Nanami from fantasizing.

People found it difficult to approach her—not just because she would rather be playing games, but because she often dozed. In group projects, in gym class, during activities that better suited cooperation, she might be drowsy on her feet, and quickly left behind by her teammates or classmates. She wasn’t bullied, because bullies found it difficult to bully a girl who was half-asleep or asleep most of the time, who smiled groggily at people and wasn’t unfriendly.

She often sat off to the side by herself during sports festivals, slumped on the grassy bank against a tree, sparing a thought or two to wonder…

_I wonder what I’m doing?_

A lot of people said that school was the best time of their lives. But Nanami didn’t see that at all.

It was not long after that that she met Tanaka Gundam.

 

* * *

 

Sliding open the door to what she hoped was an empty classroom, Nanami pulled up short. She blinked against the sunlight spotting the room—most of the curtains had been pulled over the windows and she realised that someone had put down the projector. Wondering if she had accidentally walked in on a club activity, she realised just a moment too late that there was only one occupant in the room. And that occupant was looking directly at her.

A deep voice sounded funny when it was rising in a startled squeak and the boy leapt to his feet, a long scarf that definitely wasn’t part of the school uniform flapping behind him. He slapped the projector off, blanketing the room in darkness once again.

“…Um,” Nanami began, uncertainly, as her eyes struggled to adjust. “…was that the PV for the newest ‘Monster Collector’ game…?”

“Hm?”

“…The new ‘Monster Collector’ game…”

An eye seemed to wink in the darkness, bewildered, and then the boy walked back a bit to slide open a curtain, so that they could see each other. Strange hair, styled in a just-as-strange twist, eyes that were… yellow? Those were probably colour contacts. And, he wore a long, dark scarf wrapped high on his neck, covering his chin.

“…You’re interested in such a thing?” the boy asked her cautiously.

Nanami nodded slowly, picking her way into the classroom so she could sink down into one of the desks. She stretched out her arms in front of her and sagged down with a yawn. “I hadn’t seen it yet—I was going to watch it when I got home. Could you put the projector back on? I’ve been interested in it for a while.” She smiled over at the boy, who stared at her some more.

…But, after several minutes, he did.

He sat heavily, arms folding over his chest like he didn’t want to be here, but his eyes gleamed with excitement as the PV played, and they reacted together at the gameplay, Nanami lifting out of her seat slightly. One of the few things that could stir her from her drowsy states were things pertaining to games. She hadn’t expected to find someone else too impatient to wait for the same thing she had been anticipating all day, though.

“Are you going to get it when it comes out?” she asked the boy, a little interested in him, what kind of person he might be. She’d never seen him around much—but that wasn’t a surprise, she hardly looked around much. His face stiffened slightly and he glanced down. He shrugged his shoulder in a jerky motion.

“We don’t have anything to spare for paltry entertainment,” he mumbled.

_Ah, so he doesn’t have money for it._

It was here that Nanami paused. She… Hm. Could she? She may as well.

“Would you like to come and play it on my system when it comes out?” she said, and she felt her voice was too loud in the room, from how the boy had quieted. His eyes narrowed at her, suspicious, and he stood slowly from his seat.

“Is this—some kind of trick?” he asked, drawing himself up to his full height. It was rather impressive.

Nanami shook her head, yawning and muffling the sound into the crook of her arm.

Her lackluster reaction apparently did _something_ , for he stopped looking at her with such narrowed eyes, glancing away instead. “You don’t even know me,” he said quietly to the empty room.

“I don’t think that matters… we’re both interested in the game, so that’s enough, don’t you think?”

This evidently hadn’t occurred to him. The boy dragged a restless hand over his hair and glared off into the distance before turning the glare on Nanami. “Give me your name, then.”

Her hand swayed, raising up in a sleepy wave. “I’m Nanami Chiaki.”

“…Tanaka Gundam.” He looked away, as if discomfited that he had given his name. “With this, our promise is sealed. Do not forget.”

 

* * *

 

It was surprisingly easy to get to know Tanaka.

Nanami, who had had a difficult time making friends until now, found it was much simpler than the games made it seem. It was more fluid than life had made it thus far, as if she’d just changed modes from ‘hard’ to ‘easy’. She didn’t have to hand gifts to him, she didn’t have to complete his side quests, she didn’t have to engage in small talk that meant nothing to either of them—he was fairly happy just coming over to her house and playing games with her.

The first time he had come over, her parents had nearly fainted. Their daughter, _their_ Nanami? Making friends? It made more sense when they peeked in to find that they were playing video games and arguing about the best way to raise a certain monster, but _still_.

And, Nanami…

She’d never played with other people, never played co-op, she never competed with anyone except the computer. Tanaka, for all that he was jumpy (he didn’t like her getting too close) and bossy, was still good to play with. He was fun to play with, he was fun to talk with, to eat lunches outside with, to duck under awnings when they were caught in the rain with.

He was her first friend.

(And she his, not that he ever said so in so many words.)

Eventually, Tanaka even came to prod her on her shoulder when trying to get her attention, to sweeping up behind her or next to her in the hallways at school without a word, falling into step with her like it was natural. They bumped together and he stopped flinching. She took his wrist or his hand to pull him along sometimes and he went with it. It was nice. The gulf between her and her classmates grew further still with her friendship with the school weirdo, but it didn’t bother her at all. Rather, she liked being friends with Tanaka more than anything else, why should it?

On occasion, Tanaka asked her—hesitant, halting, about whether or not this was fine. He didn’t say so in as straightforward a manner, but the meaning was the same.

On those occasions, Nanami smiled sleepily and replied, “What are you talking about? Tanaka-kun’s my friend. And my player two, you know.”

If he bought her a pretty, girly bracelet with _player one_ on its cat-eared charm and she bought him a suitably gothic pendant with _player two_ on it, it was their little secret.

 

* * *

 

One of the most important things she learned about Tanaka Gundam was that, more than anyone else she had ever met, he _loved_ animals.

“I am unable to keep them in my abode,” he told her one time, sourly, as they sat together watching animal videos on her phone.

It seemed like too big of a shame for someone who watched people with their pets, in real life or videos, with such abject longing. So Nanami asked her parents, who nearly keeled over _again_ hearing that their daughter wanted to get a _pet_ , of all things. But Nanami knew just the one that she wanted, she didn’t even need to consider or need the time to decide.

She and Tanaka passed by an animal shelter not far from their school every day on their walks home. Tanaka often hesitated and lingered in front of it, but one day they actually went inside.

It had taken her nigh on an hour to encourage him away from the section with the hamsters, brought to the shelter because they ‘weren’t exciting enough’ or ‘weren’t affectionate enough’. His eyes had been all for a big, nervous black hamster who eyed them both warily as he skittered to and fro, scratching at the walls or curling up in a ball with his back to them. Apparently, that one had been here several months, without an adoption in sight.

Not a few days later, Nanami brought him home, texted Tanaka, and he burst into her room, panting loudly like he’d sprinted the whole way there.

“N—Nanami! What is the meaning of… you couldn’t have…”

He trailed off, looking at the large habitat set up, spanning almost half of Nanami’s room. She sat, smiling, her legs curled up to her chest as the big black hamster happily raced around in a habitat much more suitable to his size. Tanaka, weak-kneed, walked over and collapsed in a sitting position next to her.

“I don’t really know very much about having a pet,” she told him. “So I thought we could take care of him together.”

He was happy, she thought. That’s why his eyes looked suspiciously shiny. Nanami smiled and gently rocked her body to and fro as the hamster paused to furiously wipe his face, look out at them, and then resume his eager explorations.

“…and, I don’t really know what to name him.”

 

* * *

 

Tanaka loudly proclaimed that he— _their_ —hamster would henceforth be known as the Black Knight, feared by all who beheld him.

Nanami called him ‘Kuro’ for short.

 

* * *

 

Many people said such friendships flagged with time. Once they left high school, everything would change. They said a lot of things that never ended up coming true, Nanami thought. Despite how she wanted to spend her time doing little more than playing games and not bothering with studying, hearing warnings from her teachers that she’d never get through school like that, she still passed her exams. Not the highest, but not the lowest, either. Despite how people disparaged Tanaka and called him strange and thought he’d never make it, he got a job shortly after he had graduated school.

At a pet shop, in fact. He had smirked as he told her about all of the discounts he could get for Kuro on pet supplies and toys just after he’d been offered the job. He had been moved from Nanami’s parents home into the apartment that they rented together.

These days, people asked if they were dating.

They weren’t, by the way.

Nanami knew, somewhere deep down—that there were people out there who were waiting for her. She didn’t think it was something like ‘soul mates’ or ‘destiny’, but she just had a feeling that there were… shards, yes, shards that were missing out of her and that other people held those shards in them, cradled gently in their hands. She helped with game design and with managing a small but popular game site but she knew that that wasn’t her true calling.

You might have said she had an advantage over countless others, who couldn’t believe such things. Who thought _ah, this is it_.

All she had to do was wait. She knew that, eventually, things would change.

Not just for her or Gundam… but for others, too.

The time would come.


	8. stentorian: the case of owari akane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even if people rushed or they worked their hardest, they could still lose everything they cared for in a heartbeat… because the adult world was a mean place. The homeless, wandering Owari didn’t have to be old herself to know this.
> 
> And then she stumbled on a lost foreign girl, bereft of passport. More accurately, Sonia found her.

Owari Akane sneezed as a chill breeze swept her skin and slapped both palms to her arms, rubbing them to generate a little friction. It was getting close to spring, and yet there was still the smallest touch of winter carried in the air. Winter had been hell this year—but last year, she had least had a roof over her head. This year, she hadn’t had any such luck.

Homeless but not too worried about it, Owari yawned, stretched and scratched her armpit as she looked around.

She was in a residential district, small and homely, full of cute and neat little houses. She frowned. She didn’t recognise, uh… any of these houses, she realised belatedly as she pivoted on her heel, looking around her. Nope. She didn’t recognise the houses or the roads or the alleys. When did she get here, again? Speaking of, _why_ did she end up here?

…Oh well! She shrugged and continued on.

Her worn jeans and her torn shirt were paltry defense against the cool, but she was used to muscling her way past it. She’d been through all kinds of weather and weather conditions in years spent bouncing between employed and homeless, sometimes both at once. Right _now_ , she was only homeless, reflecting on how the hell she was going to get back to a place she recognised so she could hit up her usual spots.

“Stop it!” a young girl’s voice was wailing as Owari turned a corner, coming up on a small playground. She squinted ahead of her.

“What’re you going to do?” sneered one of the boys as he held her things out of reach. “Go get the teacher?

Owari cracked her knuckles.

She didn’t think, really, before acting. But in a few long, leaping strides she’d come to a skidding halt behind the boy, grabbing him up by his pack and lifting him clean off of the ground. “Oi,” she said, “what’re you doin’? What kinda man picks on girls?”

The boy, discombobulated, thrashed in her grip, but Owari was far too used to handling rowdy kids. She gave him a little shake while the girl watched with enormous eyes, cheeks slightly streaked with tears.

“If you want me to put you down,” Owari continued, “you’re gonna apologise to this girl and give her back her stuff. Got it, brat?”

Shake shake.

“I g-got it, I got it!” he wailed but he _did_ do just what Owari said when she set him down on his feet. Then, of course, he raced off, leaving her snorting and planting her hands on her hips as the little girl shrugged into her backpack, glancing up shyly at her.

“You okay? Boys are dumb,” Owari stated, dropping to a crouch in front of her, grinning.

The girl nodded again, smiling as she gripped the straps of the backpack. “Mmhm. Thank—”

“You there! What’re you doing with that girl?!” a loud voice boomed, seemingly out of nowhere, and Owari glanced up with a _hah_?

A huge, muscular man was stomping her way, fury in his face and his hands balled into huge fists. He pointed one finger at her as he approached, as though to say _you’re in trouble_. Groaning, Owari rose to her feet and she turned, not wanting the pain in the ass that was dealing with someone who thought she was a sketchy bum trying to kidnap kids.

Bum she was, kidnapper she wasn’t!

“Hey!”

The shout followed her as she made a mad dash, only sparing a moment to think about how she had no idea where she was going.

 

* * *

 

Owari stared with glazed eyes around her.

 _I have no idea where this place is,_ she thought. Her mad dash away from that teacher-looking guy had only ended up with her in… well, a more commercial area, but she still had no idea where the hell it actually was. Maybe if she could find a familiar landmark she could find her way back to her usual haunts but, as it was, she had no idea where to go.

Slumping down into a bench, she groaned and stared up at the sky. Her stomach growled with hunger and the air around her was full of the smells of food, smells that she had to swallow back her saliva at. She was starving. Maybe there was something in the—well, she didn’t want to dig through the trash, not really, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

She’d just rest a little while longer, though.

Scratching her chest (unladylike), Owari flopped onto her side on the couch and watched the crowds of people passing. It wasn’t like her to spare too much thought to them, but today she noticed their clothes, their harried, hurried expressions and wondered what they were all rushing toward. Palm covering an enormous yawn, she slumped further down onto her side, narrowing her eyes against her side.

Even if they all rushed like that or worked their hardest, they could still lose everything they cared for in a heartbeat…

The adult world was a mean place.

Owari didn’t have to be old herself to know this. She’d seen the way kids were treated, she’d been one of those kids thrown out time and time again by people who didn’t want to deal with her once they realised she was wild, uncontrollable. Eh, well, that was what they called her, at least.

She shut her eyes, drifting into a light doze.

After a while, a sweet, perfumey scent swept her nose and she opened her eyes. Man, that smell was close.

And for good reason. There was a girl standing in front of the bench. She had blond hair, was wearing a simple dress that was still fancier than any clothes Owari had ever wore. Her hair was tucked back and her eyes were like glittering blue gemstones. Huh. Owari had never seen eyes like that, she thought, even as she watched the girl open her mouth.

 _Some_ kind of sound poured out. However, Owari didn’t recognise _anything_ the girl was saying.

Her face warped in bewilderment and she pushed herself up into a sitting position, staring at the girl. The girl who stopped when she realised that Owari couldn’t understand and tried something else. This batch of words sounded even _weirder_ than the last.

“…I have no idea what you’re sayin’,” she told the girl plainly.

The girl sighed and slumped her shoulders with a nod as if to say _I thought as much_.

Huh?

“Wait, can you understand me?”

The girl nodded.

Whoa.

 _Weird_.

Owari scratched her hair and squinted at the girl, who seemed neither put off nor really concerned by Owari tattered clothes or her general dirtiness or the air of _homeless_ that she gave up. Rather, the girl was looking at her hopefully, as if Owari were the last person on earth who could help her. Uhmm. Owari glanced around.

“Did you get lost from your parents?” she tried.

The girl blinked and then began to laugh, shaking her head. She dug into the purse at one hip, pulling out a wallet and showed Owari an ID. It was like no other ID she’d ever seen, but the girl tapped a place with a number that Owari could recognise well enough. Okay. Just a foreigner, then.

“Lost?” she went for this time.

The girl nodded eagerly and Owari groaned.

“Listen, I ain’t from around here, I don’t really know where I am either,” she told the girl, who looked at her with concern. “Oi, ain’t the time to worry about _me_.” She scanned the passing crowds with distaste but, shrugging, she gestured for the girl to follow as she headed toward them. “Hey.”

The first person walked away, ignoring her. That was normal. Owari tried again.

The people kept walking.

Owari growled quietly and the girl fidgeted behind her, moving to step up alongside her. Glancing down, she saw big blue eyes fixed on her—big, _trusting_ blue eyes that reminded her of the way that some of her adopted siblings had looked at her. Owari ground her teeth and growled some more, reaching out to grab at another passer-by.

 

* * *

 

It hadn’t worked. The guy had taken one look at her and high-tailed it toward a koban.

In a hurry, Owari had thrown the girl over her shoulder and dashed away as fast as her legs could take her. Now she sat with the girl on a swing, in the park she had hurried away from earlier. “Sorry ‘bout that,” she told the girl, who just shrugged and smiled. “What the hell even happened with you? You ain’t just lost, right?”

The girl bit her lip and shook her head. This was hard when only one of them could speak in a way the other understood. However, after a moment, the girl got out a very uncertain, “Paaass…por…uto.”

Owari blinked. “Passport? …did you lose it?”

The girl sighed heavily and lowered her head and Owari nearly jumped to her feet. “That’s serious! Damn— tch, I should take you to one of the em… ba… those things where you foreigners go when yer in trouble… What did you go losin’ your passport for?!”

The girl slumped more.

“Ah, no… sorry. You didn’t do it on purpose or nothin’.” Owari awkwardly scratched her head and plopped down in the swing again, pushing herself back and forth. It felt something like picking on a kid who didn’t deserve it. However, it was as bad as losing your ticket! Any kid knew not to do that. “But you picked someone real bad to get to help ya… I mean, I’m homeless, y’know?”

The girl’s hands flew up to her mouth in surprise.

“You didn’t know?” Owari snorted in astonishment.

She shook her head.

Owari laughed faintly in disbelief. So here she was, a homeless person, stuck with a girl who couldn’t speak Japanese, neither of them knowing where they were. And Owari had just gotten them in trouble with the koban not far—she didn’t even want to _risk_ walking up to one of the doors of the houses around here. She didn’t want to deal with cops, wasn’t particularly fond of them, been forced to leave a comfortable spot more than once because a cop threatened her.

Both girls sighed and Owari looked doubtfully around the playground. “Well,” she began hesitantly, “guess we could try sleepin’ here. Sorry. Girl like you probably’s used to beds.”

The girl just smiled at her, shaking her head and gently patting Owari’s wrist several times as though to say _it’s okay_. Owari didn’t get it. Were all foreigners like this? She didn’t think so. Either way… she stood up, determined to scout at least a half-decent comfortable place here for the girl when she realised someone was coming their way.

She tensed, ready to scoop up the girl and run when she realised it was the big guy who had charged toward her earlier demanding what she was doing with that girl she helped.

“Damn it,” she muttered but, as the man stepped into the light of a streetlamp, he didn’t look upset at all.

Rather, he practically threw himself down with a shout of, “I’m sorry for misunderstanding earlier!”

The girl was comically round-eyed again and Owari wondered what the hell happened to her day that she was in this situation. “The hell you talkin’ about, old man?” she spluttered, and the old man peered up at her. He probably wasn’t much older than her, but the moniker fit somehow.

“For earlier,” he said gravely. “I didn’t realise you were helping Sakae earlier. I took my eyes off of her for a moment and she disappeared and yet I immediately lashed out at you, who was helping her… uuu…!” He slammed his fist against the ground and looked very much like he was about to cry. Owari looked at the girl who had stepped up, walking to the man and leaning over to pat his shoulder several times before offering him a handkerchief.

The man blew his nose like a foghorn before standing and nodding solemn thanks at the girl, who curtseyed and smiled.

“I guess it’s okay,” Owari muttered, bewildered.

“Thank you! And you, young lady.” He addressed the girl as he said this, puzzled when she just smiled and nodded. “Is something wrong?”

“She can’t speak Japanese,” Owari grunted. “Just understands it.” She walked closer slowly, feeling protective of the blond girl with the polite manner and the sweet smile. Even though they’d known each other—well, not long. They couldn’t even speak properly to one another. “I’ve been tryin’ to get her to a, uh… those places. Where foreigners go. ‘Cause she lost her passport.”

“Ohh,” the man said, putting his hand to his chin as he looked at the girl. Owari was tempted to growl a little at him but, in all honesty… he didn’t seem so bad. “That’s indeed troubling. All right. Why don’t you come to my house for a while, and I’ll see if I can’t call a friend who can help?”

He beamed confidently and the girl nodded even before Owari had a chance.

“Oi, oi, you gotta be careful with strangers,” she hissed at the girl.

“I’m not a stranger! I’m Nidai Nekomaruuuuuuuuuuu!”

“You’re loud as hell, that’s what you are!”

 

* * *

 

What an odd, odd day.

Owari sat in the comfortable living room of a bachelor’s house as Nidai bustled around in the other room, preparing something to eat for them all. The girl was contentedly wrapped up in a blanket, that she kept spreading to admire the design of, and she’d get up sometimes too to investigate the sliding doors with glee. She was just like a kid, Owari thought as she watched her, cheek against her palm.

“All right, it’s done,” Nidai announced as he came into the room with bowls full of—ramen? Was that ramen? She stopped listening to him as he said, “A friend is coming over who should be able to talk to you, Sonia.”

(Sonia had, thankfully, been able to write out her name for the two of them once she had access to a computer. It would take a while before Owari stopped thinking of her as ‘the girl’.)

Owari was making a pool of drool on the table immediately and her stomach, as though it had been waiting for this moment, revved to life, announcing its hunger. Nidai put a bowl in front of her and, barely after he had sat down, she was slamming it (empty) to the top of the table with a loud demand of, “You got seconds, old man?”

Nidai blinked… and then he began to laugh loudly.

“A healthy appetite is good for the body,” he declared. He declared everything even if it was something small. Owari didn’t care, so long as he fed her more, and he did indeed return—carrying the pot, in fact. Sonia was enjoying herself figuring out how to use her chopsticks, sipping several noodles up and humming happily, nodding her head.

Owari was busy trying to vacuum the remainder of the food into her mouth.

It was an hour later, when Owari felt full in the first time in a long time (and had bathed upstairs! She was sparkling clean), that she flopped sideways on the floor in the old man’s living room. There was the buzzing of the doorbell but she ignored it, enjoying the warmth of a house, the lingering smells of food, the comfort that she didn’t think she’d missed.

Owari yawned.

Well, it was really hard to try to get enough money for a nice house like this. The best jobs she got were the ones where the old men wanted to grab her in inappropriate places, where they wanted her to wear an extremely short skirt. There were other jobs that ended as soon as they began, when Owari realised what they were really at—more than a few men had gotten kicked between the legs when she _had_ , and then she raced off to find shelter or food for the night.

She’d stopped thinking of the future ‘cause she didn’t have that much hope anyway. She’d probably be doing this when she was an old granny. An old granny begging for coins on the corner, Owari thought and snorted, half-smirked, to herself. That was kind of pathetic.

Once that Sonia girl was sent back home, once the old man kicked her out, it’d be back to normal. This was why getting a taste of something you couldn’t have was no good—you’d start wanting it for good.

Shuffling noises.

Owari peeked open an eye, looking up. A girl with pale hair and a snuggly-looking hoodie was shuffling into the living room. She looked drowsy, yawning several times and, sweeping in behind her, was a tall man with an intimidating glare and a long, dark red scarf. Nidai came in after them and Sonia looked up curiously from where she’d been sitting on the couch near Owari sprawled out on the floor, browsing the internet on the laptop Nidai had given her.

The girl with the hoodie said something to Sonia in a language Owari didn’t understand, and her face lit up. At once, she was talking in a rapid-fire pace to her, eager and excited, and Owari sat up while furrowing her eyebrows.

“Who’re these guys, old man?” she asked.

“Ah, this is Tanaka and Nanami,” Nidai replied, introducing each by turn—Tanaka looked confused, watching his companion as though he didn’t understand why she could converse with the quickly speaking Sonia. “They’re recent friends of mine! Ha ha ha ha!”

“Mm.” Nanami blinked sleepily, as though stirring from a trance, turning to Owari. “Sonia wanted to say ‘thank you very much, Owari-san’.”

“Eh?”

Nanami nodded and Sonia turned too, giving Owari a heart-melting smile. O-oh. Owari coughed and scratched her cheek, looking away with an embarrassed mutter about how it was nothing, no big deal. Nanami smiled a little too, turning back to Sonia and reengaging in their conversation.

Nanami’s companion was still quiet, hadn’t said a word, had in fact closed his eyes.

“Hey, scarf-guy. You goin’ to sleep?” Owari asked him, but the man peeked open an eye and looked at her irritably.

“As though I would dare to sleep around such a crowd of people,” he said in a lower voice than she’d expected. Owari _hehhh_ ’d skeptically. “And you… who are you? What relationship do you have to these two?”

“Ahh,” Owari said, shrugging, “name’s Owari Akane. M’just a homeless person. Just happened to pick up Sonia earlier and ran into the old man before that.”

Nidai was out of his seat in a shot, echoing the ‘HOMELESS?!’ in a voice that Owari thought rattled the walls. She groaned, clamping her hands over her ears and glared at him. Hadn’t she said? She probably forgot. Oh well.

“That won’t do,” Nidai continued fiercely. “To you, I have a debt I must repay!”

“Hah?”

“So, you and Sonia will stay in my house until everything is resolved, and until we find you somewhere you can live!” Nidai declared triumphantly. Owari began to bristle. She’d met these kinds of people a couple of times too—people who offered to take her in, help her, only to turn around and leave her in more trouble than she’d been in before they nosed their way into her life.

“Like I need it,” Owari snarled and leapt to her feet.

Nidai’s call of her name followed her out of the house. She stood on the front step, wondering why it was cold, colder than she remembered it out here, and then the door opened up behind her. She was ready to snarl or run, maybe in that order, but it was Sonia who slid out onto the step with her. Sonia just smiled at her, unable to say anything, stood next to Owari on the step and joined her when she slowly sat down.

“I don’t need it,” Owari said again. “I’m sick of always thinkin’ I’ve finally got _it_ , only for it to be gone.” She grit her teeth, frustrated, but Sonia placed her smooth, warm hand on Owari’s tanned forearm, stroking it gently. It, somehow, undid knots that she didn’t know were as tight as they were.

“You know what I mean?” she tried again, a little desperate. “It ain’t like I’ve never tried or anythin’. These people always think I’m not tryin’. But I am, it just doesn’t work.” She looked out into the night, scowling. “So what’s the point?”

Sonia just shook her head and tugged gently on Owari’s arm. Reluctantly, Owari stood up and looked at her, looked at Sonia, who nodded at the house they came out of. Then she made a circle of her index finger and her thumb.

_It’s okay._

“You don’t know that,” Owari grumbled. Sonia shook her head with a small shrug, but her eyes were bright. She tugged Owari closer to the house, stroking the door with her free hand. It was a strange, fond gesture, and Owari took a second to think about _her_. Sonia. What the hell had she come to this country for? She couldn’t speak the language, she’d probably been scared when her passport was lost (or stolen) and she’d turned to Owari without hesitation, trusting in her something Owari didn’t even know was there to begin with. If it was there at all.

Sonia tugged at her arm again, encouragingly.

“…you want me to give it a chance,” Owari muttered. Sonia nodded and moved both of her hands, extending up. Her fingertips were chilly from the night air, but they were pleasant and gentle when they held at Owari’s face. Despite herself, she leaned into it and huffed a cloud of white off to one side. Damn it.

Sonia gave her a chance, not even knowing her. One day and they couldn’t share words properly.

A chance, huh.

“…Fine. Just one. This’s gonna be the last time.”


End file.
